The Crooked Potters
by Banm
Summary: A six month exodus from the wizarding world has left Harry Potter, former Auror and family man, suffering from depression, alcoholism and violent outbursts... until he receives an offer from a sympathetic Professor McGonagall that he cannot refuse: Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Twenty-Seven years ago the Wizarding World breathed one great, big collective sigh of relief. The tumultuous war that had rocked Britain to its very core had ended in a single, long night. The Ministry of Magic had been reclaimed, the corruption of Hogwarts vanquished and above all: the Dark Lord was dead.

For some it was too good to be true; the terror that had haunted the wizarding world for forty years was now just an empty body, tucked away from sight in a locked chamber in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Free at last from the shackles that bound him to the Dark Lord, Harry Potter was finally able to live his life. Revered by most and admired by all, he grew into one of the most prominent young Auror's in recent wizarding history. His skills were unmatched, and he quickly progressed through the ranks of the Ministry, eventually claiming the prestigious title of Head Auror.

Haunted no more by Voldemort's soul, he experienced the true pleasures of life along with his bustling family: The Potter-Weasley Clan.

For a time, everything was alright.

You see, there are hundreds of tales that speak of the triumphs of Harry James Potter.

But this is not one of those tales.

* * *

 ** _Contains:_** _Violence,_ _Coarse Language, Sexual Content, Substance Abuse._


	2. A Potent Liquid

**A Potent Liquid**

Houses aren't often embarrassed, but we have been allowed a rare glimpse at a house that would burn red with shame if it was fortunate enough to have a face.

Tabby the House Elf, however, did have a face – one she kept unsurprisingly neutral as she swept away the clutter and confusion that had enveloped number twelve Grimmauld Place; the noble and most ancient house of Black.

It was a routine Tabby was almost _too_ familiar with. She would rise at sun-up, she would see to the immediate damage; fires, plagues of locusts and the like. She would then remove the countless bottles of firewhisky, scrub away the stains they had created on the antique rug that was older than most house elves, and then dust every corner of the house.

Once the windows gleamed and the kitchen taps sang a merry song of cleanliness, she would vanish away the vomit that covered the bathroom floor. She would polish the bathroom, and she would make sure the toilet lid was down.

This would take up much of her day, and for much of her day she would resist the urge to ball her shaking hands into fists and tear the entire horrid house down.

Tabby often found a pillow to scream into when it all became too much, on this particular day she sniffed back tears as she replaced the curtains in her Master's study. She had chosen curtains in a deep, velvet red, the sort of red that would often walk hand-in-hand with Gryffindor house – her master's former house.

They had cost a pretty penny, but Tabby had direct orders from her Master to be as indulgent as she liked with his vast bank account. There were only two keys to her Master's vault deep beneath the bank of Gringotts, and one of them hung from a thick string around her neck.

This was because Tabby had a very important job – once all the cleaning and cooking was finished. Her Master had a single, penetrating need, one that dwarfed all others in his life. Her Master desired firewhisky; six bottles to be delivered before noon, every day – including Sunday.

Tabby took pride in this – a most conflicted and painful pride. She knew of no other House Elf that had unlimited access to their Master's vault. Especially not a vault such as her Master's vault; which was as extravagant as any ancient wizarding family. She could not even count on twelve hands how many dozens of golden Galleons her Master owned. Enough to last a hundred life times; certainly enough to send her Master's three children happily through their childhoods.

 _Certainly enough_ , she thought bitterly, _for Master to buy six bottles of firewhisky a day, every day, for six months._

She wanted, more than anything, to maim herself for what she did to her Master; for the poison she allowed her Master to consume every day.

She wouldn't, however, because she was forbidden. Forbidden by her Master; her unkempt and untidy Master.

Tabby had known many Human Beings in her life time, but none more miserably broken than the one she soothed to sleep every night, drunken, hollow, and very, very alone.

His name was Harry Potter.

* * *

If Grimmauld Place was a mess, its owner was a shipwreck, and one that smelt strongly of alcohol. The dwelling had been a very sorry state before Harry Potter had the common sense to hire a House Elf. The house had lain dormant for years after the end of the second wizarding war. It had acted as the official-but-reluctant headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.

Even during those times, as the denizens of Grimmauld Place resisted the forces of evil, the house was rarely clean, and often dangerous. The house was regarded as close to sentient, and it often took measures to strike back against those it deemed _inferior_.

The war ended, of course, and the house once more faded into obscurity. Ownership passed to Harry Potter after the death of the last true heir of house Black, and he was glad to forget Grimmauld Place, firmly blocking it from his mind; for this place held no happy memories.

It was only six months prior to this dreary day that the ancient house had materialized once more, its doors creaking open to bid a cold welcome to its detached owner.

A deep sea of filth bathed the house; every footstep issued forth a small eruption of dust. The figure shambled his way into the kitchen, and began opening cupboards at random, seeking some form of nourishment. Any food that had once lined the shelves had dilapidated into ghoulish nothingness, but one solitary glass bottle did remain.

It was Ogden's finest firewhisky; his late godfathers favourite. Harry Potter sat down in a kitchen that had once bustled with feverish activity. He drank to the memories of those who had sat with him in the now empty room. He drank until their faces blurred together in his head, and tears fell from beneath a pair of misty glasses.

Days blended into weeks, and the weeks into months. Harry's drinking habits only fuelled the intensity of his heartache. His friend's letters were thrown to the fireplace, their ceaseless visits went unanswered, and no charm or spell would unlock the doors to Grimmauld Place. He could not bear to allow his loved ones to see him like this, and furthermore he could not allow himself to the hurt he had caused them.

For some time he was alone.

He awoke each morning, still somewhat light-headed from the evening prior. During the brief period between wakefulness and pouring his first drink, he would conjure a mental list of goals to be completed before the end of the day. These were small steps towards regaining some slither of Harry's past life. The first was easy; Send letter to his estranged family, whose absence pained him most of all.

Except how could he expect a letter to fix the damage he had created? The goal became pathetic, and his small steps became gaping chasms.

He had a drink.

He should visit Kingsley, a treasured friend, not to mention the current Minister for Magic.

…Except it was Kingsley who had suggested that Harry temporarily absolve himself from his position as Head Auror. Harry fought the impulse to have another drink as the war raged on in his head; Kingsley couldn't have predicted that the trauma would incur such a downhill spiral in Harry's life. Yet he had been out of contact with Kingsley for months, and he couldn't let himself be seen in the Ministry for fear of a public outrage.

Harry had never embraced his celebrity status amongst the wizarding world, nor the publicity it brought him. He had learned at an early age to ignore the false praise and criticism lumped onto him by the Daily Prophet and the legion of journalists it employed; none more prying than the infamous Rita Skeeter, who had been the first to denounce Harry Potter and his Auror department after the incident that had ruined his life.

Even with the tough skin he had developed over his decades in the public eye, nothing could have prepared him for the onslaught. The tabloids had spurred a pure and bitter hatred of Harry Potter, and in his most vulnerable hour it had quickly overwhelmed him, because he deserved every ounce of it.

The guild was his alone, and for the rest of his life he would endure it. He accepted this easily, because firewhisky made everything easier.

For the first time in his life, Harry was a coward. He knew it; and he knew his family knew it, along with the entirety of the wizarding world. The bitter taste of Harry's final mistake lingered in their open mouths, and while some of them may have forgiven Harry during his months of absence, Harry could never forgive himself.

Even now, in the deepest of slumbers, his dreams poked and prodded at his trembling guilt. The images of charred bodies and suddenly crumbling stone flashed across his vision. Buildings around Harry gave way, sliding gracefully into the rubble. An invisible force rooted Harry to the ground, forcing him to stand and watch as his world fell apart around him. The force materialized into a cruel, spiteful laugh, echoing around his skull as he was prevented from rushing to help the victims; strangers, friends and family alike.

It was the greatest casualty since the Battle of Hogwarts.

* * *

Tabby trembled as she watched her Master twist and twitch in his sleep; his fingers curling into fists and his upper lip pulling his face into a snarl. His nightmares caused Tabby a great amount of pain, and she could not even fathom how much they hurt her Master.

She set down the sack of empty bottles she had been carrying, laying it gently on the carpet beside the sofa. With several deep, heaving breaths, she steadied herself. Tabby held her hand next to her Master's troubled face where his glasses hung askew, and snapped her fingers loudly.

'Ginny?' mumbled Harry. His eyes popped and his pupils dilated as they absorbed the sunlight that glinted through the new curtains.

Tabby backed away from the sofa that Harry had claimed as a bed.

'No sir. Just Tabby, sir,' she muttered, unable to meet his eye.

Realisation worked its way through Harry's face, battling past several acute emotions. He groaned, rolled onto his back, and swung his feet off of the sofa, planting them firmly on the floor.

'Did I fall asleep?' he asked, running his fingernails through the wiry hair that peppered his chin.

'Yes sir, thirteen hours ago sir.'

Tabby had reverted back to her usual duties. She snapped her fingers once, causing the sack of empty bottles to vanish into thin air. She was pruning the velvet curtains as Harry peered through his fingers at the empty space where the bottles had just been.

'Thirteen hours?' he mumbled, his mind was taking a while to wake up. 'It's one o'clock already?'

'Three o'clock sir,' replied Tabby obediently.

For a moment Harry looked mildly shocked. He blinked once, and the expression was wiped from his face. Tabby stole a look at him as he bowed his head in his hands, and stared solemnly at the carpet.

* * *

It was three o'clock on a Friday, thought Harry. Or it could have been a Thursday – not that it even mattered. Every day was the same in this empty, lonely house.

Harry clamped his hands together and clenched, preventing the shaking that threatened to take over his body at any moment. These tremors were a regular thing; a battle that Harry fought every morning.

It was as if Harry's hands sought the next bottle even as his mind began to prepare its defences against the liquor. He hated the burning alcohol that wetted his throat each day, numbing the pain into something more manageable.

Yet without the whisky he knew he would not function. He refused to live even a single hour with the clear and honest knowledge that he had thrown away the most precious things in his life.

Instead he grunted, and stomped the carpet angrily. He felt a sudden pang of regret as Tabby flinched. She had only lived here several months, and her employment was a beacon of self-hatred for Harry. He chastised himself daily for allowing himself the support of such a loyal House Elf; no creature deserved the burden of cleaning up after Harry Potter.

There was some solace, however. Harry paid Tabby an honest wage as part of the new era of Elfish Welfare; this was reflected in the neatly ironed uniform she wore proudly.

No longer were House Elves shackled to their Masters, unable to abandon even the cruellest of families. House Elves could now willingly resign from a family's service at any moment.

This shocked Harry. It meant that Tabby willingly served him, day after blurry day.

Harry raised his head at last, and stared bleakly out of the open window. The dark red of the curtains seemed to mimic the harshness of the afternoon sun. It was in this moment that Harry realized something was quite wrong.

'Tabby, did you take down the curtains?' he asked, looking around the room for the missing blinds. The sudden movement caused his head to spin, and he quickly succumbed to dizziness.

'No sir. You did, sir,' she replied curtly.

'I did?' he asked, racking his brains – or what was left of them. It was useless; Harry's previous evening was a ruined painting inside of his mind.

'Yes sir. With fire, sir,' Tabby said carefully, avoiding Harry's eye.

 _Fire_? That seemed like something Harry ought to remember. He shook his head, willing himself to recall the lucid, garish memories of the previous night. The only thing his brain could recall was several flashes of orange and a loud hiccup.

Could he really be that irresponsible?

Of course he could, he thought, as his anger flared. He had been nothing but irresponsible for six months. He watched Tabby as she collected the last of the bottles that surrounded the sofa. She handled them with distaste, always keeping them at an arm's length. She had even wrapped her hands in dirty cloth…

Harry halted in his train of thought, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. They weren't cloths; they were bandages.

'Tabby … your hands … you didn't?' started Harry, slipping off the sofa and onto his knees, gaining a better vantage point to inspect the angry burns that crept across Tabby's arms.

She averted his eye. 'It's no worry sir,' she said sadly, turning her back on Harry.

It was almost too much. Harry's heart stopped; his shame for being a reckless drunk had been unmatchable, until today. Today it has been eclipsed.

He didn't deserve Tabby's help, and never had, yet she had done nothing but help him since her arrival at Grimmauld Place.

By her own free will she had put up with his deplorable behaviour, and he had repaid her by putting her directly in harm's way. A harm he himself had caused; unnecessary pain for an innocent creature.

An innocent creature that should have packed her bags and withdrawn from Harry's services the instant he had started waving his wand around. Harry stared after Tabby as she left the room, dragging behind her the aftermath of his nightly ruin.

All the blood in Harry's body was rushing to his head, and his heartbeat suddenly multiplied. He fell into a coughing fit, as if his insides desired nothing more than to crawl out of his throat and abandon him. He could taste the harsh liquor that had driven to such shameful lengths of stupidity.

No. He wouldn't blame the alcohol; the blame lay only with himself.

Harry struggled to his feet, stumbling towards the door. His head swam an ocean of his own distraught. He made it two steps before collapsing into a pile on the floor. His glasses shattered, cutting the skin beneath his eyes, and for a long time he lay there.

Until he was sober.

* * *

 _BANG. BANG. BANG._

Tabby banged her head against the pillow she held onto the hardest wall of the house. It didn't hurt – as per her Master's orders – but it was as close as she could get.

Sorrow tore through her body; how could she reduce Master Harry to such tears? He was a scared, lonely man who depended on her. How could she take his money and treat him so badly.

 _BANG. BANG. BANG._

'Bad Tabby! Bad Tabby!' she cried, accentuating every syllable by butting her head against the pillow-softened wall.

'Tabby, stop that!'

Her Master stood in the doorway, one hand massaging his chest, and the other gripping the frame of the door, steadying himself.

She bowed her head in shame, secretly thankful for the interruption. Her head had begun to ache.

Harry knelt down by her side, taking her bandaged hands in his own. She had to hide her surprise as his fingers shuddered against her own – these were the shivers of a sober man, and her Master was rarely sober.

She made a mental note to restock the fridge with extra firewhisky.

Harry gingerly traced his finger along the burns that racked her hands and arms. Eventually he let go, as a sudden droplet of blood fell from a cut beneath his eye, landing wetly on her skin.

'Why do you do it? Why do you put up with me Tabby?' he asked at last, tearing his gaze from her burns.

'It is an elf's duty to support her Master,' she replied almost automatically, gently dabbing the droplet of blood on her arm.

Harry slumped against the wall behind him in reply, his hands clawing their way through his shaggy mane of hair.

'Elf's don't forget sir,' she said suddenly.

Harry looked as surprised as Tabby felt. She hadn't meant to say that, she had merely thought it while her mouth was open.

'Pardon?'

Tabby took a deep breath, considering her words carefully.

'We ain't like wizards, sir. We ain't forgotten what you done us. What you done for the Free Elf.'

'Dobby…' said Harry, an unfamiliar tickling sensation crawled through his face. He was smiling.

 _Dobby, the Free Elf_.

Harry desperately tried to recall the elf's face from the depths of his memory, but it had been a very long time, and vision spun as the remains of last night's firewhisky filtered through his system.

Tabby was positively frightened; she had never seen her Master smile before. Harry looked deeply into her eyes, and began to chuckle. Where had he seen that elfish look of concern before? It evoked a long forgotten memory from his youth.

A rogue bludger, a hospital bed, and a mouthful of Skele-Gro.

Harry chuckled again, serenading the memory of Dobby with his laughter. He glanced at Tabby, and the smile was suddenly stricken from his face.

His eyes fell once more to her bandaged hands. Harry sighed, and produced his holly-hewn wand. What would Hermione think of him? Nothing that Harry hadn't thought of himself, of course.

Tabby anticipated Harry's intentions, and recoiled away from his wand. Harry looked at her in surprise.

'It ain't proper sir,' she said apologetically.

'I'm not exactly proper, in case you hadn't noticed.' Harry replied, holding his wand over Tabby's scolded hands.

" _Episkey_." he said, out loud, for he did not trust his spinning head to pull off the non-verbal incantation.

The rags fell away, revealing the angry, scorched skin beneath. Inch by inch the skin re-knitted itself over the burns. In seconds the spell had finished, revealing a healthy stretch of pink-grey skin. Tabby held her hands up to her eyes to examine them.

'You are most kind, sir,' she said shyly. Harry opened his mouth to disagree, but Tabby had already turned away and returned to her cleaning.

Harry stood quite alone, wand in hand. He had not cast such a healing spell in a long time, and it felt _good_. Not so good it scrubbed away the shame of harming his faithful servant, but good enough to instil a small sense of purpose in him.

He slumped against the wall, linking his fingers together to prevent the shaking. Once again, he began to build a list in his head; steps he would need to take in order to breathe life into his wasted existence. These were steps he knew all too well, as he had started this process a hundred times.

But this time would be his last.

* * *

"Bugger,"

Harry's aim was atrocious - even with his repaired glasses. He had been out of practice for some time, and his pounding headache wasn't making matters any easier. He flicked his wand again, launching a bottle of firewhisky high into the air across the mess of overgrowth that was Grimmauld Place's garden.

" _Stupefy!_ " he shouted, sending a red bolt hurtling towards the glass bottle.

Harry cursed again. The spell had missed by an inch, barely grazing the glass. The bottle fell into the foliage below, disappearing from sight.

One bottle remained out of the original pile of twelve. Harry stared at it longingly, watching the burning liquid slosh around inside. He fought the temptation to throw his wand into the growth and down the bottle whole. Perhaps just one glass …

No. It would do no good. His fist automatically clenched around his wand, and Harry sent the last bottle into the air with a silent incantation.

' _Stupefy!'_ growled Harry. The bottle peaked at fifty feet in the air, and this time his arm was true.

The spell rocketed into the glass – shattering it. Shards flew in all directions, and Harry instinctively threw up a shield charm to deflect any stray fragments.

Droplets of firewhisky fell all around him, showering the garden. Harry felt a small pang of jealousy as the firewhisky torrent ended.

A funny thing happened. The world had stopped its steady spin, and Harry could almost think clearly. His hands still shook, but his head was cooled by a welcome breeze. Harry found that he enjoyed being outside; there was a freshness in the air that seemed almost foreign.

Hiding away in this ancient house with a poisoned mind had dulled his senses. He should spend more time in this garden, he thought.

'Letter for you, sir,' came Tabby's voice from somewhere behind him. Harry absentmindedly held out his hand for the letter, and felt it pushed against his hand.

'Oh sir, this won't do at all,' said Tabby, looking alarmed at the state of the wild garden.

'Nah,' said Harry fondly, recalling a similar garden from his childhood. 'I think it's brilliant,'

He smiled at Tabby, but she didn't look particularly reassured. She took one last pained look at the garden before returning to the house, and it was several minutes before Harry remembered his letter.

His name had been inked in a perfect, twisting calligraphy. The handwriting tugged a distant chord in his memory. Harry frowned, trying to think of a likely source of the letter – after all, his current whereabouts were not a well-known fact.

Harry carelessly ripped the envelope open, his twitchy fingers tearing off the corner of the letter inside. Digging into the remains of the envelope, Harry pulled out a single Quidditch ticket.

 _Hollyhead Harpy (Reserve Team) vs. Wimbourne Wasps (Reserve Team)_  
 _18:36 on the Afternoon of July 24._  
 _Exmoor, Northern Pitch_

Harry turned the envelope upside-down and shook it violently, looking for a note of some kind. A small tear of parchment slipped through Harry's fingers. He instinctively caught it in mid-air and held it up to his eyes to read:

 _With love,_  
 _Lily_

Three words; the only words he had heard from any of his children in six months. Each word struck him like a harsh blow to the head. It ignited a dozen conflicting emotions – the mere fact that his daughter actually wanted to see Harry came to him as a pure and honest shock.

He looked at the Quidditch ticket again, and smiled. His wife had played for the Hollyhead Harpies, and he fondly recalled the free tickets he would receive for every game, although his career as an Auror often restricted him from attending. He was happy to see his daughter following in her mother's footsteps. With a tremendous pang of guilt he wondered where his other children may be, and what kind of lives they were leading.

Both had now graduated from Hogwarts, and were paving their own paths in the wizarding world. He should be at home, thought at Harry, helping them with the choices they would have to face, and guiding them as any decent parent would. Instead he had locked himself inside this horrible house to be forgotten.

Harry looked at his dented pocket watch, given to him a long time ago by his Mother-in-law. He still had an hour before the first whistle – plenty of time to get to Exmoor. He looked at the tool shed, knowing that inside was his preferred mode of transport - if you didn't count broomstick.

'Tabby,' called Harry; there was a deafening crack as she apparated to his side. The sudden noise rekindled a dull throbbing inside Harry's head.

'I'm going to need my helmet,' he said, purposefully striding towards the shed. 'And probably some gloves too.'

'At once, sir,' she said, disapparating again.

Harry waved his wand over the numerous locks on the shed door; each one clicked and fell to the floor with a clang. The door swung open.

The device in question had once belonged to his godfather, the previous owner of number twelve Grimmauld Place. Over the years it had passed through several owners, mostly due to his godfather being the most wanted wizard in Britain.

It was a large, greasy motorcycle, and it flew. Ginny had disapproved of it instantly, knowing full well the dangers of enchanted Muggle vehicles – as her father had previously owned a flying Ford Anglia. She had forbidden her children from riding in the sidecar, much to their chagrin.

There was a certain sense of neglect surrounding the motorcycle. Harry ran his finger across the frame, gathering a small mound of dust. The chassis was speckled with rust and grime, and there was a small dent in the exhaust where Harry had made a crash landing some years ago.

Tabby returned with Harry's things while he poured petrol into the tank. His helmet had its own layer of dust – it hadn't been used in some time. He whisked it away with his coat sleeve, and gave Tabby a nervous smile.

'Right, I'll be out for a bit. Probably a couple of hours,' Harry told Tabby, his voice betraying his excitement. 'You should give yourself the night off. Put your feet up and have a butterbeer, maybe. I mean it Tabby. No cleaning, no washing. You've earned it,'

Tabby just nodded obediently, her eyes full of worry. Harry swept the unkempt hair out of his eyes and pulled the helmet over his head. With a tap of his wand, the motorcycle sprung to life, its engine giving off a deafening roar of approval.

Tabby backtracked out of the shed as fast as her small legs could take her as Harry swung himself onto the bike. She gave Harry one last look before disapparating back into the house. Harry wasn't sure if it was a look of disapproval or apprehension. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and pulled out onto into the garden.

He enjoyed the steady thrum of the engine beneath him, and with a whoop of elation he shot off into the skies, shredding the towering garden weeds. He felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as the bike swung around, giving him one last look at Grimmauld Place before the Fidelius Charm swallowed it from view.

He headed west towards the grassy banks of Exmoor, where he hoped that he may find some kind of rejuvenation. It would be there somewhere, among the excitement of a high speed game of Quidditch, where he would see his daughter for the first time in six months.

He blinked reluctant tears from his eyes, and told himself it was just the wind.


	3. Harpies

**Harpies**

'Your ticket please, sir?'

Harry nodded weightily, still wearing his heavy motorcycle helmet. He handed his ticket over to the elderly wizard, who swept his purposefully wand across it, scanning its authenticity. He gave a curt nod and vanished the ticket with flick of his wand before ushering Harry away.

Harry walked back towards his motorbike, glad to be away from the busy queue leading up to the ticket kiosk. Away from the crowd, he finally slid his helmet from his head and rested it on the seat of his bike.

It was the first time he had been outdoors in months, and uneasiness crept its way up his neck, drowning the earlier adrenaline rush. He was still not yet ready to face the public, not after his six months of concealment. He briefly considered altering his appearance, but dismissed the thought quickly; while he was a fairly capable wizard, Transfiguration was certainly not one of his strengths. Polyjuice potion would have been ideal, but his entire store had been left behind at his former home when he had abandoned the wizarding world, and the complicated formula took a full month to brew.

Harry stole a glance at the lengthy queue behind him and absent-mindedly scratched his beard - any one of those wizards or witches could recognize him. Perhaps, he thought to himself, he should return to home to Grimmauld Place. Tabby could make him a nice cup of tea, and he could compose a letter of apology to his only daughter, and perhaps several more to the rest of his family.

The crowd was growing. Harry, desperate to not attract unwanted attention, turned away and returned to his bike. His helmet was half-way onto his head when he caught an unsightly and most unfamiliar reflection in his motorbike mirror.

'Merlin's beard,' he muttered under his breath, once more running his fingers through the thick scruff of beard that covered his jaw.

His hair, thinning now with age, curled in eccentric directions down to his neck. The months of malnourishment had taken a toll on his body; his sallow skin and the heavy bags beneath his green eyes suited the sorts of shady characters he would often find inhabiting Knockturn Alley during his Auror raids.

He grinned lopsidedly at his bedraggled reflection; he would have no problem being spotted amongst the crowd. It would take a keen eye to realise that beneath this grizzled exterior was the boy who lived.

Harry swallowed down a sudden lump in his throat – would his own daughter recognize him?

It wouldn't do well to dwell on such things, Harry thought, as he searched his surroundings for something to take his mind off the subject. The sun was low in the sky, causing Harry to bow his head against the summer glare.

These were good conditions for Quidditch, he thought. Harry recalled similar weather from his trip to Hogwarts two years earlier; Lily had captained the Gryffindor Quidditch team to a hard fought victory against an equally skilled Ravenclaw, earning her house the Quidditch cup. He proudly remembered her hefting the trophy above her head. Her smile had lit up the entire pitch.

'Fancy a brew mate?' called a young peddler to Harry's left, 'we've got mead, stout, whisky. You name it, we got it.'

Harry found himself automatically approaching the stall before he could even consider stopping himself. His dry throat had overpowered any will power he may have once possessed. What harm could one drink do?

He took a deep breath, clearing his head. One drink would lead to two, then three, and four. There was no telling what lengths Harry would go to quench his desperate thirst. Harry suddenly recalled a lost memory from the previous night; a flash of bright, orange flames conjured from his own wand.

'N-No,' stammered Harry, his mind ablaze with the memories of his House Elf's injured hands, 'nothing for me, thanks.'

The young man frowned at Harry's awkward behaviour. Harry, fearing being recognized, pulled his collar up to cover his face, but the man was already grinning wickedly.

'Not even a whisky? I can smell it on you, no point hiding it. We've got all sorts, mate. Blishen's, Ogden's…'

Harry had already turned away, putting as much distance between him and the liquor stall as possible. He hoped without the smell of whisky around him he would be able to turn his mind from the alcohol, but the various spices and aromas that wafted past him as he hurried through the market stalls only intensified his cravings.

Quidditch, he thought forcefully, conjuring up his own images of the broom-sport. If anything could keep his mind away from the liquor it was Quidditch. He hurried to join the crowd of witches and wizards making their way towards the pitch, waving flags and toasting each other with bottles of butterbeer.

Tucking his hands into the pockets of his heavy coat, Harry walked beneath the giant archway that signified the entrance to the Quidditch pitch, each team's banners hung from the archway, enchanted to flash the colours of their respective teams. One held a wasp amongst a yellow and black background, while the other sported a dark green background beneath a golden talon. He knew which team he would be supporting.

His wife, Ginny Weasley, had played the position of seeker, chaser and keeper during his six year tenure with the Hollyhead Harpies. She had even been offered the Captains badge after an exceptional performance during the 2006 Quidditch league. She had turned it down for one reason - she was pregnant. He could vividly remember her final game before retirement, where she had helped the Harpies destroy the Chudley Cannons by over two-hundred points. Ron had been furious.

 _Ron._

It felt like it had been an age since he had seen his best friend and right hand man, Ron Weasley, the brother of his wife and uncle of his children. Harry smiled as he ascended the tower steps of the Quidditch pitch. At one time he and Ron had been inseparable; they had shared a dormitory at school, and then shared a career together in the Ministry of Magic. Harry speculated on his friend's current whereabouts, could he still be working with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, or had he left to join his brother at his their sweet emporium in Diagon Alley, like he had always talked about?

His thoughts wandered into dangerous territory; the last mission he and Ron had embarked on together. It had been the mission where everything had gone wrong, where anger had flooded Harry's body and a single miscast spell had brought his world, and a dozen innocent lives, to a very sudden stop.

Harry stopped in his tracks, the memories dancing around in his head like a hypnotic inferno. Red, blurry images swirled beneath his eyes, accompanied by an unrelenting urge. His thoughts settled on the image of a single, dusty bottle of Firewhisky. Harry reached out, almost tasting the scolding liquid on his tongue, and his hands clenched around a rough, wooden post.

He found himself looking out over the Quidditch - Harry had reached the top of the stands, where he was quickly jostled towards a seat by the swell of humanity behind him.

He planted himself on a bench on the front row, between a grizzled, rotund man and a small, slightly child. Anxiety tickled Harry's nape; this had not been part of his plan. A seat at the back of the stalls would have given Harry more privacy, and a much less chance of being revealed as the outcast Harry Potter.

Years of working as an Auror had made Harry uncomfortable at having his back facing so many people. It made him feel like a target, a magical dartboard of sorts. A trickle of sweat beaded at the top of his neck, and slowly made its way into the folds of his coat. It was too hot out here in the open sun, and the breeze was almost non-existent. Harry felt a hot flush come upon him, and the heat was only partly to blame.

Harry looked down at his hands.

'You're shaking, ' came a voice to his right.

Harry turned to see the child looking at him with bright, brown eyes, almost shimmering with excitement. Harry had a feeling that this was the boy's first Quidditch match.

'You're right,' said Harry. 'It's freezing up here.'

'It really isn't,' chided the boy, returning his gaze to the oval pitch below him.

Harry shrugged and looked away. His mouth had become unimaginably dry, and his throat was starting to itch. He caught a whiff of something sweet and buttery in the air, sending his stomach into somersaults. The smell, coupled with the aggravating heat and surrounding crowd threatened to push Harry over the edge. He stood up abruptly, unwilling to breathe in any more of the butterbeer's sickly aroma, but as he did so, a magically enhanced voice reverberated around the stadium.

'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first exhibition game for the National Quidditch League reserves!'

A ripple of noise spread around the crowd as they welcomed the start of the game. It reminded Harry just where he was, and who had invited him to be there in the first place.

He shook his head, and sat himself back down on the bench, ignoring the questioning looks from the child next to him.

'…some heart-breaking news from our correspondents at the Daily Prophet. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and honoured member of our community, Professor Leander Thursday, has passed away at the ripe age of eighty-three.'

Harry absorbed the information in a sullen silence. There were several small gasps, and a lot of muttering from the small crowd around Harry, but no tears were shed for the man.

Harry had met the Headmaster on several formal occasions, and doubted very much that any tears would be shed at all. The man had been teaching at Hogwarts for half a dozen years; he was a cold man, stern but not unfair. He was lacking the previous affection for education of previous heads, but had always treated his students with respect. The wizarding community would surely miss the man's fierce intelligence, and he would certainly be a hard man to replace.

A white spark shot into the air from the far side of the stadium, conjured as a sign of respect to the deceased Headmaster. Others in attendance followed suit, and soon the sky was a shower of falling sparks.

Harry silently prayed for the game to begin, hoping to lose himself in the thrill of competition. He recalled the youthful face of his daughter, Lily Luna Potter, or "Lily Looney", as he used to tease her. That was back when she was a babe, and couldn't yet defend herself with the sharp tongue she developed in her later years. He imagined her face - not her face as he had last seen, when she had lay on a hospital bed, completely still, on the night of the massacre - but before that, when things were better… when Harry was better.

'And now, ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for - the Hollyhead Harpies Reserve Quidditch Team! I give you - Hobb!'

Lily watched as Hobb, the team captain, kicked off from the ground, rocketing into the sky above. _Two more to go_ , she thought.

'Stebbins!' boomed the Announcer's voice. Magically amplified, it sent vibrations through the entire stadium; Stebbins gave a whoop of excitement and straddled her broom. In an instant she was gone. Lily squeezed her eyes shut.

 _Deep breaths, thought Lily… deep breaths._

'Watkins!'

Matilda Watkins turned to Lily, her smile stretching from ear to ear. 'That's me!' she squealed, poking her tongue out as she hopped onto her broomstick.

'See you in the air, Mad-Eye!' she shouted as she zoomed away. Lily glared at her as she too prepared to mount her broom.

'I hate that name,' she grumbled to no one in particular.

'Whatever, Mad-Eye,' chirped a team mate from behind her.

'And now, returning to professional Quidditch for the first time in six months...'

A smile tugged at the corners of Lily's mouth.

'Potter!'

The ground fell away from Lily as she hurtled into the air, leaning her broom towards her fellow team mates. Accompanying her take off was a sudden, almighty roar that erupted from the crowd. Her cheeks reddened, not that anyone would notice, unless they had a seriously good pair of Omnioculars. She had expected the worst; booing, hissing, thrown vegetables. Six months was a long time, but the country still remembered what had happened before her sudden leave of absence. What she hadn't expected was the entire stadium welcoming her back to the sport with such a singular, beautiful cheer.

She couldn't resist a barrel roll, which sent a surge of delight through the crowd. The rest of her team funnelled out behind her as she caught up to Matilda and fell into formation. She scanned the opposite end of the pitch, scouting the opposition. Five men and two women, each garbed in an unflattering yellow and black striped uniform. It almost hurt her good eye to look at the garish colours, and she decided in that moment that she would enjoy beating this team.

Another shout from the announcer informed Lily that the referee had hovered his way onto the pitch, an aluminium lock-box tucked beneath his arm. He held the box at an arm's length, where it squirmed slightly. The referee produced his wand - it was short and stubby, rather like him - and tapped it once on the box, deactivating the reinforced locks and releasing three balls into the air; two malicious, iron Bludgers, dark as shadows and easily capable of causing broken bones and memory loss. Then came the snitch. It was nothing like the Bludgers. It was graceful and almost angelic in appearance with its golden sheen and silver wings.

Lily tore her attention back to the referee, letting the golden snitch escape her sight. She had another ball to worry about. The scarlet Quaffle was launched into the air, accompanied by an ear-piercing screech from the referee's whistle and an encouraging rumble from the crowd. Six chasers threw themselves flat onto their brooms, desperate to be the first to reach the ball as it fell, unnaturally slow, back to the earth - magically enchanted to resist the effects of gravity.

'And Cunningham is first to the Quaffle - but wait - he fumbles it!' There was a groan from the yellow-clad crowd members. 'Stebbins steals the Quaffle right from under his nose!'

Lily kept one eye on the Quaffle as it was passed between Stebbins and Watkins. The other eye scanned the opposing team for any gaps in their defence. She was flying on the right wing to support her central team mates. As soon as they drew their opponents attention the Quaffle would be passed to Lily, and with a little luck she would score her first professional goal in six months.

'Watkins - Stebbins - back to Watkins!'

A sudden movement from Lily's side forced her to duck out of the way of a speeding Bludger. It sailed harmlessly over her head and back into the tangle of players, but the manoeuvre had thrown her out of position just as Watkins passed the Quaffle in her direction. Acting on pure reflexes, Lily yanked backwards and took both hands from the broom, with her arms stretched she just managed scrape the Quaffle with the tips of her fingers. The industry-standard gripping charm did the rest, rolling the ball firmly into her hand as if it were magnetic. Off balance, Lily rolled once before planting her free hand back onto the broom to right herself. Then she shot off towards the enemy goal.

'Brilliant Bludger work there from Haskins, but it's not enough to keep Potter away from the Quaffle - Is she going for the goal? - She is!'

She was unstoppable. Dipping beneath an incoming Wasp, Lily swerved into the scoring area, the Quaffle tucked against her hip bone. Stebbins and Watkins fell back - only one opposing chaser could enter the scoring area at once - and then held their breath as Lily lifted her arm and threw the Quaffle, backhanded, towards the middle hoop, allowing a grunt of exertion to squeeze out of her lungs as she completed the throw. The Keeper made a desperate dive for the right hoop, misjudging Lily's shot and allowing the Quaffle to glide safely through the central hoop and away into the stands.

'Potter scores!' shouted the announcer above the sudden uproar from the green clad supporters. 'It's ten zero to the Hollyhead Harpies!'

Lily punched the air as she swooped past the crowd. Full of joy and spurred on by the first goal of the game, Lily couldn't help perform a celebratory somersault, delighting the Harpy fans in attendance. She angled herself back towards her team-mates with a smile on her face, eager to get back into the game. Her nerves had fizzled away into nothingness, she was in her element. She swept the surrounding stands with her eye, fruitlessly searching for any sign of her estranged father. She shook her head, remembering the anxiety she felt as she sent the tickets to the unfamiliar address that her Uncle Ron had given her, it was silly to expect him to resurface here, in the middle of such a public gathering, after he had been away so long.

As much as she missed him, she pushed the thought away from her head. She couldn't afford a distraction at such a crucial time. The Quaffle had returned to play, caught by an attacking chaser. Lily grinned as he streaked towards her, anxious to equalize for his team.

 _Not if I have anything to say about it,_ thought Lily as she span around to face him, zooming forward to intercept.

The crowd erupted in a cheer as the Hollyhead Harpies scored yet another goal, their thirteenth of the game. This time it was Libby Stebbins who had won the ten points for her team. Harry found himself on his feet, clapping alongside the enthusiastic young boy next to him as Stebbins whizzed over their heads to complete her victory lap.

'She's my second cousin,' said the boy, smiling proudly out at the pitch as Stebbins dived back into play.

'Do you play Quidditch with her?'

'They only visit at Christmas. 'Spect I won't see her this year after I start at Hogwarts.'

'Hogwarts…' repeated Harry, almost choking on the word. A rush of nostalgia flooded his thoughts; the great hall at Christmas; the comforting warmth of the dormitory fire –

An explosion of light in the entrance hall illuminating the bodies that littered the floor.

'It's a school,' said the boy, pulling Harry away from his thoughts.

Agitated, Harry casually rubbed his forehead. 'Yeah, I'm aware of that -'

'And Hobb spots the snitch! This could be over in seconds!'

Harry swung his attention back to the Quidditch pitch as the crowd responded to Hobb's sudden spurt of speed with an encouraging rumble, steadily increasing in volume as she spiralled into the sky, the Wimbourne Wasps seeker struggling to match her movements. Watching the two seekers, Harry could almost feel the wind in his hair and the rush of adrenaline that so naturally came with the hunt of the golden Snitch.

The snitch looped itself around both seekers, forcing them both to make a sudden change of direction. The awkward movement put each seeker side-by-side, speeding after the snitch with arms outstretched and fingers snatching desperately at thin air. Harry, along with several hundred others, found himself holding his breath in anticipation as the seekers streaked over the stands, inching closer to the evasive golden snitch before there was sudden, deafening silence as the snitch faltered and both seekers swung their arms outward.

 _CRACK!_

The silence was evaporated as a Bludger smashed its way past the seekers, clipping both of their hands in the process before escaping back into the air. The stadium quickly filled with cries of shock from the opposing crowds before-

'She's got it! She's got it! The Bludger knocks Hobb's hand into the snitch! The Hollyhead Harpies have won the game!'

The voice of the Quidditch announcer quickly found itself drowned out by the tumultuous roar from the Harpy supporters, with Harry amongst them. For several golden, blissful moments he lost himself, caught up in the adrenaline and immensity of the moment. The fans in attendance were cheering for their team's hard fought victory. Harry cheered for another reason.

He desperately sought the attention of his daughter as she joined the rest of the team in a mid-air group hug. Through the tangle of bodies he caught a snatch of red hair. Then, as the team broke away from each other, he saw her.

For the first time in six months Harry saw his only daughter, perched upon her broom and slowly rotating, searching for something in the mass of crowd. He glimpsed her fading smile, the same smile that had won his heart on the day she was born. Harry broke out into a smile of his own as he remembered her warm, brown eyes as they gazed happily into his own. She had her mother's eyes. Harry unashamedly let a tear roll down his cheek as Lily turned her eyes to sweep over Harry's own.

For a second she gasped, and Harry's heart constricted as if strangled by a snake. But then, against all odds, she smiled. The smile lit up her face, shining through the scars.

Scars that etched their way across her face, deepening as they gathered around an eye that rolled uncertainly in her head – scars Harry may as well have carved into her face.

Lily's insides were doing some kind of gymnastic display – her heart was thumping in some kind of acid-jazz time signature. Her Dad had come to the game, the Dad that had spent six months in social reclusion.

She tried to keep her magical eye fixed on his position, but the crowd was already dispersing, and he was quickly lost in the thrum.

Had that been a smile on his face? She could barely tell through the uncharacteristic beard. _It sort of suits him_ , she thought. She couldn't wait to tell her Mum.

'Lily, team photograph! Now!' called Hobb as she streamed past, the golden snitch still clutched in her swollen hand.

Lily angled her broom after her, soaring towards the changing rooms. She didn't have time for photographs or interviews – she needed an excuse, a way to find her father as soon as possible.

'Lily, over here – what are you doing?'

The entire locker room burst into sounds of revulsion as Lily pulled her magical eye out of its socket. She pushed back a smile as the Harpies' keeper doubled over the waste-paper bin to throw up.

'Something's wrong with it, I don't think it likes the wind,' said Lily, her voice full of feigned concern. 'I'll run it under some water, might do the trick.'

She left before someone could conjure a stream of water from their wands, heading towards the stadium exit. Knowing her Dad must've flown to the pitch, she decided to head towards the public broom shed.

She had taken less than five steps out of the stadium when a jet of red sparks flew past her ear.

Her father stood in the shadow of the giant stadium, looking at his wand in annoyance.

'I was trying to conjure flowers,' he mumbled, his flickering eyes betraying his nerves.

'Dad,' Lily whispered.

They stared at each other, perhaps for a second, perhaps for a minute. Neither of them could say for certain how much time passed as they searched one another's faces. Six months had left Harry with a scruffy head of hair and beard, as well as a slightly bulging belly from the copious amounts of alcohol. Lily seemed to be in the best flying shape of her life, the only changes were seared into the skin of her face. Deep, fleshy scores over what had once been a perfect smile.

'Your face…' said Harry stupidly.

'Oh,' replied Lily, reddening. 'I'm over it, really. At least it'll keep me off the front page of the Prophet.'

'The technology these days is fantastic,' joked Harry, staring at Lily's eccentric eye. 'I can't even tell which one is the fake.'

'Really?' replied Lily, flashing a smile. The eye began somersaulting in its socket.

'That's just showing off. Can it see through walls?'

'Nah, they wouldn't let me play Quidditch if it did. Those types are rare anyway; the last one issued was an old Auror who died in the war. You probably knew him.'

'Probably,' agreed Harry, his eyes misting up as they always did when one of his children mentioned the war.

The silence fell between them again, one that Lily knew jokes could not penetrate.

'I don't blame you,' she blurted out suddenly. 'Nobody does, Dad – '

Her father grimaced and looked away, his movements betraying his shame. Lily suddenly felt a spark of anger within her.

'Don't you fucking dare,' she snarled. 'Don't you hide from me, not now,'

Harry's mouth fell open, and his eyes widened in surprise. It must've been the first time she had sworn in front of her Dad. The heat of the moment suddenly evaporated, and she felt the first tickles of embarrassment.

'Wow,' said Harry, 'well said.'

'Mum's been worried sick – and Auntie Hermione, well, she wanted to storm into Sirius' old place and drag you back home. We told them not to bother; we knew you'd figure it out in the end. You know it wasn't your fault now, don't you?'

She could tell by his face that he didn't, but all the same he summoned a brave smile.

'Lily, I think I've been an idiot,'

'Jackass. That's what Ron calls you,' she replied, smiling.

'That too. I don't know what I've been thinking – actually I don't think I've been thinking at all. Does that make sense?'

'No, but Mum won't care. She just wants you to come home, she's been saying it since I got out of St. Mungo's,'

'Did it hurt?' asked Harry, the concern returning to his face.

She almost told him the truth.

'Nah, a face full of Fiendfyre is nothing compared to Quidditch drills,' she lied, recalling the weeks of agony within those white hospital walls. She casually rubbed her wrists where the leather straps had held her down to the bed to stop her from clawing at her own face.

'I lost it,' started Harry. 'I just saw the bodies, and I thought you and your Mum ... and then red… just red.'

Lily understood completely, that same red had engulfed her as she had recovered from the shock of the explosion, spitting and snatching at her face.

'Dad, come on. It's not even in the top twenty casualties of this century,' she muttered, trying to calm him down. He gave her a funny look, and she sheepishly added: 'Auntie Hermione told me.'

'That doesn't exactly ease my mind,' he replied, scratching at his beard. 'I can't show up looking like this, she won't even recognize me.'

'Don't be an idiot, you look…' she searched for the right word, unwilling to tell her Dad that he looked cool. 'Presentable... ish. Trust me, she won't mind.'

He seemed to withdraw once more, and Lily sensed her patience wearing thin. 'Look, I've got my own place, but I'm supposed to drop by for tea. I can meet you there.'

'Lily, I don't – '

'Dad. You owe her this,'

At last he seemed unable to argue, and instead his mouth hung open. He seemed to collect himself in that moment; a part of the man Lily had proudly called her father returned to him. He held his head high for what may have been the first time in months. His searching eyes reached her own, and he nodded.

'Yes!' she yelled triumphantly. 'Dad, this is amazing.'

She launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a sudden, loving embrace. She didn't care that he smelled like he hadn't washed all week, and she didn't even care that he smelled like a distillery. She knew her Mum wouldn't care either, as long as Dad was back where he belonged.

'Yeah,' Harry mumbled, the beginnings of a grin stretching across his face. She stepped back from him and smiled.

'Dad, I've got to go see the team. You apparate ahead and I'll see you there, yeah?'

'Um. Yeah. Of course,' he said, looking uncertain. She swallowed him into another brisk hug, one he returned in full, his trembling hands patting her back. 'Hurry though, won't you?'

'Of course,' she said. She took several steps backwards; dreading leaving him alone, but somehow knowing that he would do the right thing.

She gave him one last smile, willing it to give him strength, and then turned, returning to her team. Tonight her family would be reunited, and she would be surrounded once more by the people she loved most.


	4. McGonagall's Offer

**McGonagall's Offer**

Harry stood, quite alone, where his daughter had left him. The trembling in his body would not subside, and he realized that it wasn't because of the drink, or even the cold. No, he wasn't shaking because his daughter had forgiven him.

It was a monumental feeling. It was all he had ever needed to hear, and all he had craved for six months. No amount of narcotics could recreate this feeling; this almighty high.

He hadn't apparated in months, but he didn't care. Magic of a different kind soared through him tonight, and he knew that he could work whichever spell he wanted.

He flicked his wand, conjuring a bouquet of flame-red flowers. They were the colour of Ginny's hair, he thought tenderly.

Then, without a seconds hesitation, he pictured his family home in his mind's eye, and vanished with a sudden lightning-bolt _crack_.

Several long seconds of nausea followed the sudden apparition, and Harry suddenly had the desire to throw up the contents of his stomach – which wasn't much.

The Devon countryside had appeared around him, including a large, three story house made from the whorls and knots of felled willow trees. The house had been built by Harry himself, with help from his Father-In-Law and his oldest friend, Rubeus Hagrid. It lay exactly four miles south of the Burrow, and five miles east of where his two best friends had built their own house. Their children called it the Weasley Triangle.

There were candles lit inside, and the smell of cooked vegetables wafted out of the kitchen window. Harry, his heart threatening to leap out of his throat, approached the house with a giddy excitement.

His arm was outstretched, his hand reaching for the doorknob. His fingers had barely brushed the polished wood when his Auror-sensitive ears picked up the sounds of voices inside the house. One, pitched higher than the other, was his wife. She seemed to be laughing at something, a joke perhaps. There was a second voice, significantly lower than Ginny's. It warbled in and out of conversation, encouraging bouts of laughter from his dear wife.

Unable to resist, Harry reached into his coat pocket. The coat itself held a number of useful devices from his Auror days, none more useful than the extendable ears that had been developed by his Brothers-In-Law.

Without hesitation, Harry stuck the end of the fleshy string in his left ear, and then levitated the other end through the open kitchen window. He crouched beneath the window frame, wrapping his coat around his body.

' –it used to drive him mad, I'd practise sleeping charms on him, and then sneak off to watch Muggles play that game of theirs, with the ball, and the kicking…'

The voice was undoubtedly male, and a hot flush began to develop across the back of Harry's neck in response. What was this man doing in his house? The house Harry had built with his own wand.

'…He ended up making his own alarm clocks, pieces of junk that would shriek whenever he fell asleep in his study. Loved to tinker, that man.'

'He'll be missed. He really will,'

'I doubt it. Hard man, he was. Missed only by those close to him, whoever they might be,'

Harry's mind raced, combing for memories of this man's voice. He barely registered his own wife's affectionate reply. He recalled family friends, dozens of them, but none with a subtle hint of northern accent like this mans. He was no friend of Harry's, nor a colleague from the Ministry.

A strange sort of stillness settled in Harry. His breathing slowed to a steady rate, and he realized that the trembling had returned to his hands. Not from nerves, he thought, but from a severe bout of withdrawal symptoms. His mouth had dried up, and he was suddenly desperate for a drink.

It would certainly take his mind off things. It would certainly make him forget the image of his wife sharing a candle-lit dinner with another man.

'Excuse me, will you? Just need to freshen up,' stated the man boldly. The extendable ear picked up on his retreating footsteps. Ginny hastily began setting the table; every clang of cutlery was like a blow to Harry's head.

He ripped the device from his ear and threw it into the darkness, unable to contain his frustration. Before he could stop himself, his wand was in his hand.

A curse of some kind floated into his mind, Harry, in all his righteous fury, allowed the curse to come into focus, and it blasted from his wand, setting the nearest bush on fire.

There was a yelp from the kitchen, and the sound of breaking china.

Harry spun towards the house, his eyes wide and the grip on his wand tightening. He knew then, that if the man opened the door at that moment, Harry would curse him into oblivion.

But he didn't. Instead, it was his wife of over twenty years that pried open the front door to meet the growing blaze.

Ginny Weasley stood illuminated in the narrow of the door. Her eyes searched for the source of the disturbance, and lingered briefly on the flaming hedge, before finally settling on Harry.

He fought the urge to apparate, to run away. The woman he loved was mere meters away from him, and still he had to force himself to stay still.

'You,' Ginny muttered, her voice a bare slither of a whisper. She stared at Harry in amazement, as if he were a ghost, a lost imprint on the world of man.

He supposed, in a way, that he was.

She took a single step forward, her eyebrows creasing, and then another, more purposeful step. With each step her features warped, first her eyes filled with tears, and then her hands balled into fists. Finally, as she came within inches of Harry, her face twisted into a snarl.

'How dare you! How dare you!' she screeched, lashing out at a waiting Harry.

He had briefly expected some kind of embrace, but instead her small fists battered against his body, his arms, and his head. He threw up his own arms in defence, small sparks emitting from his shaking wand. Ginny's shouts had turned to furious growls, until she was finally spitting out expletives at an alarming rate.

Harry fell backwards onto the grass, partially due to his wife's unrelenting assault, and partially to make himself a smaller target. All the blood in his body had rushed to his head and the flaming bushes illuminated his wife in a way that made her all the more ferocious.

She snatched at her robes, producing a wand of her own, and directed it at Harry's face.

His heart broke in that moment. There was no magic involved, no curse or jinx, just a single, brutal emotional fracture. Ginny didn't need to utter a word to let Harry know how unwanted he had become. Before she could inflict any further damage, he squeezed his eyes shut, and apparated with a deafening _crack_.

'Sir? Is you awake sir?'

Harry blinked himself into reality. It was hard, because his eyes were tender, as was much of his face, but he did so all the same. He timidly sat himself up, pulling stray bits of grass out of his hair as he did so. Much of the previous night was a blur, but he could taste the familiar burning sensation in his throat that usually followed a night of heavy drinking.

'Whisky,' he croaked, casting his eyes around the room.

'None sir, you has cancelled today's deliveries sir.' Tabby replied. She was peering curiously at Harry's face.

'Cancelled? That doesn't sound like me,' he moaned. The inside of his head felt fuzzy, and he knew that he was still slightly drunk. However, that did not entirely remove the pain that racked his face.

Harry grabbed the nearest empty bottle of firewhisky, and held it up to his eyes, inspecting his reflection in the glass.

'Tabby, how did I break my nose?' he asked, dreading the answer.

'You fell off the roof, sir.'

'Why was I on the roof?'

'You was thinking you were a hippogryph sir. It was quite charming - until you broke yourself, that is.'

If he could laugh without causing excruciating pain, he might have. The entire scene replayed in his head, including the moment of impact where his face bounced off the paving stones.

'I deserve it,' he spat, discarding the bottle, 'I deserve all of it. Ginny's left me, did you know? I deserve that too.'

Tabby avoided his eye, unwilling to betray her own opinions regarding the ruin her Master had caused. She didn't have to say anything; if Harry were in her shoes he would curse every minute spent in the presence of such a wretch. Tabby busied herself cleaning up the mess of empty bottles as Harry prodded his inflamed nose.

It took him several moments to find his wand – tucked beneath an ugly cushion – and fix his broken orbital bone with a quick incantation. The snap of his nasal bones clicking back into place sent a jolt through his already frazzled head.

 _Water_ , he thought, and with great effort Harry got to his feet, the room lurching as he did so. He managed to make it to the kitchen without tripping over his own feet or the mess he had caused. The finer details of yesterday's events were returning to his head, including Lily's victory on the Quidditch pitch, and the touching reunion afterwards…

As well as the not so touching reunion between Harry and his wife. He groaned out loud, groping for the taps along the kitchen sink. Within minutes the sink was filled with cool water, and Harry promptly removed his glasses and dunked his entire head in the liquid.

Harry re-emerged with a clearer head, his thirst lessening. Vision impaired, Harry carefully placed his glasses back on his nose, blinking the last drips of water from his eyes. His vision returned in full, including every gritty detail of the abandoned kitchen – with the addition of a regal looking tabby cat that had perched itself on one of the dining table chairs.

Harry blinked again, slowly this time, almost certain that the cat was part of his imagination.

It remained, however, precisely where it was. Unblinking and stoic, staring directly into Harry's face.

And then it transformed – its ears receding, and its tail shrivelling into nothingness. The tabby cat grew and grew in the space of a second, settling on the shape of a tall, severe-looking woman. The patterns of the cats face had become square-rimmed spectacles.

'Professor McGonnagal?' Harry gasped.

Her prim expression almost softened.

'Not for several years, Mister Potter. Minerva will suffice for now.'

'Minerva,' tried Harry, the informality of the name feeling odd on his lips, 'um… do you want a glass of water?'

'No thank you,' she said, peering at the overflowing sink, 'I am on Ministry business Potter, here to enquire about your mental health.'

'Mental health? I'm not mental,' he said defensively.

'Reports say otherwise,' she said curtly, casting her eyes around the kitchen. Harry had the sudden urge to tidy up, in fear of being put in detention. He took a step away from the sink, and felt his knees buckle and his head spin.

'Harry?' queried Minerva softly, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder to steady him, 'are you… what's that smell?'

Her eyes suddenly shrivelled in distaste, and Harry hoped that his quick wash had removed any traces of last night's firewhisky.

'Whisky? Really? Is that what you have been doing in this rotten house?' she took a sharp intake of breath, and then hesitated slightly before adding: 'I have never seen a wizard so _disgraced_.'

It was almost therapeutic for Harry to have his worst fears come to light; Ginny securing the final nail in the coffin of their twenty year relationship, and his old Head of house catching him in the most disparate of states. The Harry Potter that had left Hogwarts so many years ago was truly gone – something McGonnagal was struggling to come to terms with.

She gaped at Harry, the thick wrinkles around her eyes quivering with supressed shock and fury.

'Well… well, Potter. Perhaps the descriptions aren't as exaggerated as I thought. I see I have no business here after all. I wish you all the best with whatever it is you are doing with yourself these days,'

She had turned to leave before Harry could rearrange the scrambled thoughts in his head, her tartan robes billowing around her. It was a sudden _crack_ that stopped her, as Tabby the house elf apparated in the kitchen doorway, a bundle of bed linen in her bony arms.

'Letters sir, from your daughter I am thinking sir. In the lounge next to your Milkthistle tea, sir,'

'Milkthistle tea?' repeated Harry stupidly as he tried to focus on the whites of Tabby's eyes.

'For the recovery sir, we uses it for House Elf's with a taste for butterbeer sir,' she said simply, vanishing the linens with a sweep of her arms. She looked dolefully up at the towering form of Professor McGonagall, who seemed taken aback with the entire exchange.

'Not disgraced, miss. Master Potter just lost his way for a time is all.'

Harry felt a surge of gratitude towards the elf, mixed in with smatterings of guilt at the sight of her still-healing hands. McGonnagal seemed to gather her thoughts in an instant – the cogs behind her shrewd eyes working at a hundred miles per hour.

'I am glad to see you haven't let this hellish house taint your temperament towards your Elfish attendant. Perhaps you aren't as waylaid as I thought, Potter.'

'Oh no, I'm plenty waylaid,' said Harry bitterly, intent on allowing McGonagall to slander him in any way she liked.

'Well Potter, I suggest you find your bearings quickly,' she said, and it was with the faintest smile Harry realised that her autocratic tone could awaken an attentiveness within him that he had thought long gone. 'You have been served a summons from the Ministry of Magic, or more specifically, the governing council of Hogwarts.'

She produced her wand from the fabric of her sleeve, and in the same motion conjured an extreme length of parchment that lay neatly across the kitchen table. Harry was still attempting to get his bearings, on McGonagall's orders, before the words 'Summons', and 'Council of Hogwarts' had penetrated his brain.

'Wait. I'm being summoned?' he asked nobody in particularly, snatching up the parchment and reading random snippets.

 _They're punishing me at last_ , he thought abruptly, before realising that the catastrophe he has caused had had nothing to do with Hogwarts. None of this was making any sense.

'Yes Potter.'

'By the Ministry?'

'Yes Potter, or more specifically the – '

'Counselling governors of Hogwarts,' Harry finished, attempting to memorize the list of names of all current governors of Hogwarts.

'Yes Potter,' she replied curtly, plucking the parchment from his hands and rolling it up protectively.

'What for? Are they trying to expel me again or something?' he asked desperately. His previous dealings with the board of governors had been shaky at best.

'Not quite Potter. It is my duty and the duty of each of the twelve governors, to appoint a new Headmaster of Hogwarts school in the events of the previous Headmasters retirement, dismissal or death,' she said, as if it was most matter of fact thing in the world.

The room, which Harry thought he had quite under control, began to spin once more, and with a mighty effort he launched himself out of the kitchen, and towards the large mug of Milkthistle tea that sat atop a footrest in the drawing room beside several letters. He downed the beverage in two massive gulps, and almost instantly felt his stomach settle, and the everlasting thirst in his throat lessen.

'H-Headmaster?' he blurted out suddenly, the last residue of tea spraying from his mouth.

'In your case, interim Headmaster, until a suitable candidate be found,' replied McGonagall as she followed Harry into the room. 'We are nearing the end of the summer, Potter, in case you haven't noticed, and we are somewhat desperate.'

As she said this she eyed up a dusty collection of Firewhisky bottles that Tabby had missed during her daily routine, her upper lip twisting in distaste.

'You're a governor then? After everything they tried to pull when I was at school?'

'Precisely that reason, Harry,' she said imploringly, her eyes snapping back to Harry, who could sense a centuries worth of wisdom behind her glassy stare. 'Never again will the school be manipulated by a frightened faction of old-fashioned fools.'

 _Try saying that five times fast_ , thought Harry dryly. He had found a seat on the footrest, and allowed McGonnagal to tower over him, battering him with cold, hard facts.

'It was Albus' request, that I abdicate my right as Headmistress of Hogwarts when the school achieved a state of stability, and instead defend the school from the meddling fingers of the Ministry. Merlin knows I would rather be knee-deep in bickering teenagers and exam results, but my place now is as Chairman of the board of governors.'

Harry's brain almost flat-out refused to let this sink in, as it was already brimming with his latest dalliances. He forced himself to steady his racing mind, and his twitching fingers. Stuffing the letters in the pocket of his musky robes, he ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to picture himself sat in the office that once belonged to his mentor, and his friend, Albus Dumbledore.

'Professor … are you seriously asking me to be Headmaster of Hogwarts? You want me – this me –' he clarified, waving his warm around the drawing room of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, 'around students who have grown up hearing what a saint I am?'

'Correct, and we should have been at the Ministry of Magic twelve minutes ago. Consider yourself lucky that the defensive charms around this building are severely lacking, or we may have been unforgivably late.'

She had conjured a coat rack out of thin air, on which were three of Harry's coats, as well as a bowling hat he had never seen before, and a burgundy scarf that he thought may have once belonged to his Godfather. He blinked wearily at the scarf, allowing the events of the previous five minutes wash over him.

He couldn't say it out loud, but the idea of sitting atop the Headmasters tower in Hogwarts, locked off from the rest of the world, as a miniature community of children, ghosts and professors mingled beneath him, was perhaps one of the most enticing offers he had ever received, and if his career as an Auror had come to a natural end, he may well have considered it.

But not like this. Not with the room gently swaying around him, or with eccentric tufts of hair sticking out of his head and chin in various places. He wasn't even wearing shoes, nor could he remember the last time he brushed his teeth, or checked his Gringotts bank statement.

'Potter, a little haste if you don't mind.' interrupted Professor McGonagall; her eyes on her wrist watch. Harry shrugged himself out of his reverie, and for a moment allowed himself to believe that this was actually happening. Within seconds his blood began to race, and his hands began to shake. A mixture of fear, resentment and honest curiosity boiled inside the cauldron that had become his stomach.

'Yeah. Okay. I'll do it.' He said out loud, with a conviction he could almost feel, and with that said he bent over, spraying vomit over McGonagall's polished shoes.


	5. Moving Day

**Moving Day**

The Ministry of Magic was exactly as Harry remembered, yet utterly different at the same time. He had walked through the bustling atrium a thousand times, nearly every morning since enlisting as an Auror. He was used to being greeted by a dozen smiling faces, and shaking at least twenty hands before making it to the elevator. Sometimes he bumped into the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, an erratic old man who had kept a hold on his position through sheer determination and light-heartedness, as well as the support of several key players within the Wizarding community.

Today it was different – with his face obscured by rough transfiguration, Harry marched past countless of his former colleagues, and not a single one of them gave him a second glance. He counted himself lucky that he did not march straight into Ron or Hermione, and added to his luck by dropping a galleon into the Fountain of Magical Brethren, five golden figures that stood, shoulder to shoulder, to greet the comers and goers of the Ministry.

McGonnagal set a brisk pace, one Harry struggled to match. His body – once hard and nimble from hours on the Quidditch pitch and years in the field – wheezed and stumbled as the last droplets firewhisky filtered their way through his liver.

'Now, there will be some familiar faces on the board. Some may be happy to see you alive and well, others not so much,' stated McGonnagal as they reached the elevator. 'You may recognize the names Mary Cattermole, Horace Slughorn, Dr-'

'Slughorn?' said Harry, his hopes rising. 'Well, he always liked me.'

'When you were the chosen one perhaps, but Horace always resented those students that fell below his high standards.'

Harry suddenly wishes he had responded to the hundreds of letters Horace Slughorn had sent him and his wife over the years.

'And Cattermole, that name sounds familiar…'

'You saved her from an interrogation some thirty years ago, and she has remained smitten with you ever since.'

McGonagall raised her eyebrows at Harry and turned into the empty lift, the golden grille sliding shut behind them. The lift shook abruptly as it ascended, the familiar rattle of chains settling Harry's stomach. This was a routine he had once been accustomed to, as the Auror department was situated all the way up on Level Two.

' _Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Lubricious Patents Office._ ' reported a steely voice.

The lift opened, revealing a corridor draped in flags from around the world, as well as posters of Quidditch teams and engorged portraits of famous players. An untidy looking man with a unibrow stepped casually into the lift, leaning up against the metal grating.

' _Level six, Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Centre._ '

The grate slid open once more, and the man, who was now whistling what sounded like a sea shanty, exited the lift. McGonagall turned to Harry once more as they moved onwards and upwards.

'Slughorn won't be your only adversary Potter, while the majority of the Wizarding community have forgiven the Auror's for their blunder – '

'My blunder.' corrected Harry as they skipped level three, the _Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures_.

' _Their_ blunder,' McGonagall retorted sharply. 'There are several members of the board who are acutely cautious when it comes to Hogwarts, and may feel that your exodus has left you somewhat… unstable.'

'Where were they when we got given Umbridge?' asked Harry as he vividly recalled one of his least favourite teachers at Hogwarts.

'One particular board member who may seem somewhat reluctant to allow you the title of Headmaster is –'

' _Level three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee._ '

A solitary figured stepped forward into the lift, with a face so utterly familiar that Harry was almost certain that he himself would be recognized by the man. Through curtains of slick, blonde hair, Draco Malfoy gave a perfunctory smile, although his eyes remained cold.

'Draco Malfoy, as punctual as ever,' greeted McGonnagal, in a tone that was almost scarily civil.

'Minerva,' responded Malfoy casually, his eyes darting around the lift, barely resting upon Harry. 'No luck capturing Potter then?'

'I'll be making my report at the meeting, Draco, and not a moment sooner. You will have to wait with the other governors.'

 _Malfoy was a governor_? The news drenched Harry like ice water; cooling the enthusiasm he had supressed in light of his potential job offer. McGonagall and Malfoy fell naturally into a business-like conversation that bordered on small talk, and all the while Harry's carefully built resume of achievements withered into dust at the thought of confronting Malfoy in front of a group of school governors. An ancient, boyhood rivalry kindled within Harry, countless insults and hexes floated to the forefront of Harry's memory, mingled with the bittersweet image of a white-blonde ferret bouncing helplessly across the ground.

'Something funny?' asked Malfoy sharply, staring at Harry, shattering his moment of solace. Harry was spared an answer, as the lift rumbled to a halt.

 _'Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.'_

It was a level that Harry was all too familiar with, being the former Head Auror. Malfoy and McGonagall stepped calmly from the lift, and walked at a brisk pace down the corridor, with Harry trailing clumsily behind, allowing the small changes of the department to roll past him.

The clock had been fixed – he was used to it being seven minutes fast; there was a new name on the office door of the Head of the _Department of Intoxicating Substances;_ the bloodstains across the wall beside the holding cells had been scoured away; and old Bob Ogden's portrait had been removed entirely.

McGonagall took a sudden turn down a corridor that Harry was not completely familiar with: the Department of Magical Education. While these offices did not report to the Auror Office, they did occasionally request assistance from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol when Muggle Born parents prone to violence refused to believe that their magical offspring had been offered a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Malfoy stalked ahead of McGonnagal, who had purposefully slowed herself to match Harry's lagging gait. She stopped before the door of the _Urquart Meeting Room_ , which Malfoy had disappeared behind, and placed a hand against Harry's chest.

'Take a moment to gather yourself, and remove the enchantments that disguise your features. I will summon you when necessary,' she said quickly, a shade of affection creeping into her voice. 'And Potter, that transfiguration would have received an _'A'_ at best in my day.' she added, teasing Harry with a genuine smile.

Harry did his best to follow his former Head of Houses orders and gather himself, still unwilling to remove his charms lest a former colleague from the Auror department recognize him. He could remember his last summons to the Ministry of Magic, in the days of Cornelius Fudge and his desperate regime. His future father-in-law had escorted him that day, and he recalled the same butterflies in his stomach that he felt at this precise moment.

He focused on his strengths; McGonagall had described Mary Cattermole as being 'smitten' with Harry – this could perhaps be a saving grace. If he could convince one or two of the board of governors that he was a suitable replacement, then the majority would follow. There was a safety in numbers, and in these situations people would often join the majority rather than speak out and risk alienating themselves. _Unless their name is Malfoy_ , thought Harry. He was practically wizarding royalty, something he had figured out early during his school years.

McGonagall would have to deal with Malfoy, she wouldn't have dragged him here just to be ridiculed and rejected. That woman always had a plan of action, as well as the authority needed to sway people to her side.

A whisp of silvery light floated through the door and fell at Harry's feet, taking the form of a tabby cat, with marking eerily similar to McGonagall's own Animagus form.

It was a patronus – both a charm to ward off dark creatures, and a useful way of sending messages between those who knew how to conjure them.

It was also the kind of strategy Harry could appreciate. It was a patronus charm that Harry had used to battle dementors inside the ministry and save Mary Cattermole, this could well have been McGonagall's way of jogging her memory.

With a flick of his wand, Harry's facial features returned to normal, complete the various scars and stress lines he had picked up over the years, and the more recent addition of a trimmed beard.

Extremely aware that if this meeting did not go well, Harry would have to return to the dusty depths of Grimmauld Place, he took a deep, calming breath, and steadied his demeanour until he looked somewhat more impressive than he felt. He adjusted his glasses, patted down a stray tuft of hair and strutted into the room.

He was instantly aware of twelve pairs of eyes bearing down on him. The leather soles of his boots echoed around the chamber as they bounced off the marble floor. This was not a grand chamber, like the courtroom Harry had once sat out the duration of his disciplinary hearing. It was just small enough to be uncomfortable, or perhaps overly intimate, and a rustic chandelier cast a flickering light across the seated congregation that studied Harry, who squinted up at them.

'Harry James Potter,' croaked McGonagall. 'As you will have heard, Professor Leander Thursday has forfeited his duty to Hogwarts due to his untimely death. In wake of this, we, the Board of Governors, must appoint a new Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts school.'

Harry only half-listened to the formality, instead using his time to assess the various faces peering down at him. He picked out Slughorn first - the man had not aged well, but Harry would recognize that enormous, silver, walrus-like moustache anywhere. He watched Harry through gooseberry coloured eyes, eyebrows creased and deep in thought. Several places to his left was Mary Cattermole, practically brimming with excitement. She waved when Harry caught her eye, much to the disgruntlement of the man seated beside her, who Harry also recognized as Reginald Cattermole, her husband, a man Harry had seen a hundred times over the course of his Ministry employment, as Reginald was a high ranking member of the Magical Maintenance Department.

Ignoring the glare that Reginald was giving him, Harry instead cast his eyes across Malfoy, who sat to McGonagall's right, and to Harry's surprise seemed almost bored with the entire ceremony.

'While the Board cannot currently decide on a suitable candidate, we have elected to appoint an interim Headmaster, to oversee the safety and day-to-day administration of the school. They will, however, report to the Board in regards to important decisions, requests and changes to protective spells and defences.'

Harry didn't like that, but bit his tongue. His memory of previous government decisions were not good ones - particularly the one that had seen his good friend Rubeus Hagrid sent to the prison of Azkaban.

'Mister Potter, I personally have recommended you to carry out this duty. Should you be granted this power, I personally take all responsibility for the welfare of the school under your reign. Your actions during the Second Wizarding War and beyond are testimony enough to your character and moral fibre, and I firmly believe you are the most suitable candidate available to us.'

There was a rumbling of agreement through the congregation, but Harry sensed that not everybody agreed with Professor McGonagall's speech. In fact, Slughorn had opened his mouth several times as if to interrupt, but had not seemed to grasp the art of quieting Minerva McGonagall's stern authority.

'Minerva,' he began, taking his first opportunity to speak up as McGonagall re-arranged her notes. 'Look at him! He barely knows where he is, you can't expect him to shoulder that kind of responsibility!'

Harry had expected many things from this meeting, but he had never expected to be talked over - not even by his former teachers. Harry was used to heading the respected Auror department, and hunting down dark wizards, not being spoken across as if he was back in school.

'This isn't potions class Horace,' growled Harry. 'And it certainly isn't one of your parties. I might not be your golden boy anymore, but not everybody turns out to be the perfect person you envisioned - or perhaps you didn't learn that after taking Tom Riddle under your wing.'

'I - you - what? -' stammered Slughorn.

'Gentlemen!' called McGonagall, as the room erupted into chatter.

'The fact is,' started Slughorn, quickly regaining his composure. 'There are beds in St. Mungo's hospital dedicated to the people injured in Potters last escapade!' Slughorn had to shout the last few words over the various arguments that had broken out among the group.

'And there are cells in Azkaban dedicated to Potter's lifelong commitment to this country,' countered the steely voice of Draco Malfoy, plunging the room into silence once more.

Harry's heart was racing. Malfoy was the last person in the room that Harry thought would come to his defence - unless this was all some clever ruse to shut down Harry once and for all. Nobody spoke for several seconds, and Harry used the time to stare a hole through Malfoy, gauging him for some kind of response, but Malfoy seemed content studying his fingernails. Finally, McGonagall cleared her throat.

'If there are no other objections,' she said slowly, pausing to allow the silence to speak on her behalf. 'Then we can vote.'

Without pausing for effect, McGonagall's wand was in the air, glowing with a cool amber light. Several more arms followed hers, wands igniting in yellow-red glows, or in Slughorn's case, a cool blue.

Finally, Malfoy's own wand was held to the sky, emitting its own amber glow, keenly matching the candlelight that hovered above the room. McGonagall had won, by a vast majority. Only two wands glowed blue, Slughorn and Reginald Cattermole, who had a received a scathing look from his wife.

Harry blinked wearily at the throng of glowing wands, his eyes darting between McGonagall and Malfoy, the two people who had just certified his place as the new Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Grimmauld Place was no stranger to hurt - and naturally its halls were adept to the curious sound of a House Elf tantrum. Cries echoed around its crooks and corners, and tears fell unchecked from Tabby's face, to be absorbed into the dusty floorboards below.

'Master needs his... _sniff..._ Tabby.' she wailed, a bubble of snot exploding from her left nostril.

Harry stared perplexed at his dutiful servant, the outburst had come out of nowhere, stunning him into surprise. Regardless of his intentions, he had never considered that Tabby had such a deep affection for him.

'Don't leave me in this... _sniff..._ lonely house, please, I... I... - '

'Tabby, I don't know what to say... ' Harry stumbled, and suddenly he couldn't question her sudden swell of emotion - he hated the house more than anyone else, except perhaps his Godfather.

Her giant eyes filled with a fresh wave of tears, and her ears quivered uncontrollably. Harry knelt quickly at her side, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

'I'm not leaving you here Tabby. Hogwarts employs more House Elves than anywhere in Britain, you'll be coming with me, I mean... If that's what you want.'

There was a silent pause as Tabby drunk in this information, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

'Tabby does want, sir! Tabby does want very much!' she exclaimed at the top of her small lungs. She darted away from Harry, no doubt to pack her small amount of belongings, pausing at the door to give Harry a final, adoring look of gratitude.

Harry sunk into the nearest armchair, his hands finding a cup of Milkthistle tea that had been left out for him. He drained it one, relishing the creamy texture, and then groaned as the mixture worked its way through his damaged innards.

Surrounding him were various trunks of old items he had hoarded in the house, as well as leather satchels filled with products befitting the new interim Headmaster of Hogwarts, as requested by an extremely flustered McGonagall.

'That weasel Slughorn!' she complained for the umpteenth time. 'The audacity of the man. Has he forgotten half of his _slug club_ ended up in prison, or worse.'

'Probably.' mumbled Harry, fingering a shiny, new pair of beard scissors.

'Potter, you would do well to act somewhat joyful to be leaving this devilish abode.' she said, exasperated at Harry's non-committal slump.

'I've gone from Head Auror without a headache, to a Ministry puppet with a headache, in the space of six months.' confirmed Harry to himself as much as McGonagall, flicking the scissors at the floor point-first. They stabbed into the wood, and wobbled back and forth on their axis.

'The title is a merely a formality, you are the youngest Headmaster in several centuries, and one of the few to boast such an impressive resume. While you didn't seem to require my assistance to rise to Head of the Auror department, you will certainly require my help if you wish to run our school properly. That is why your first action as Headmaster is to reappoint me as Professor of Transfiguration.'

'You want to go back to teaching? Aren't you old enough to retire?' said Harry without thinking. 'Um. Sorry.' he added sheepishly as her eyes narrowed.

'I would rather sit out the rest of my days on the shores of Caithness drinking Gillywater by the quart, but my loyalty remains with Hogwarts, and if that means hours of marking homework and overseeing detentions, then so be it.'

'Right, you're hired then,' decided Harry.

'Thank you,' she said briskly, 'I'll take care of the paperwork.'

'Won't the governors mind you coming back to Hogwarts?'

'Juggling both responsibilities will no doubt be frowned upon, and the idea is a little unorthodox, but being Governor is an unpaid title, and members who cannot rely on their name and fortune often seek paid work elsewhere.' she told Harry, confirming his suspicions that the Malfoy family still had more money than sense.

'And,' she added. 'What better place to keep an eye on your progress, than working as part of your team of staff?'

Harry nodded, thinking back to his meeting with the Governors, where each member had signed a binding contract, allowing Harry full control of the Headmasters authority, chambers and finances - under supervision of course. Some members had signed enthusiastically, others not so much, but Malfoy had signed the paper with a careless flourish of his eagle-feather quill and without as much as a glance at Harry, let alone the sneer or muttered insult he had expected. Harry's months of exile were enough ammunition to set Malfoy off on one of his high-and-mighty tirades. Yet still he had said nothing.

Perhaps his responsibility at Governor had curbed his love of tormenting Harry and his peers, or perhaps he had simply grown up.

It wouldn't sink in, Harry knew, until he set foot in the castle. The thousand-year old castle that had been Harry's home for six years as he developed his magical ability, ate like a king, and killed dark lords.

He had visited several times over the years, both as a parent to watch his children race their brooms across the Quidditch pitch, and as a representative of the Ministry, on Auror business. Since Harry had risen to become Head Auror, applications had increased by three hundred percent. The recruitment process was particularly brutal, and Harry took it upon himself to enlighten N.E.W.T level students who aspired to become Auror's at least once a year.

Hogwarts held a special place in Harry's heart, resting upon a cushion of bittersweet. The joy of growing up in such a magical place was tainted by the conflict that marked the end of the Second Wizarding War; the battle of Hogwarts.

Every time Harry walked across the Hogwarts grounds, or climbed one of the one-hundred-and-forty-two staircases, he felt the weight of the deaths, traumas and destroyed families.

'I hate this stuff,' said Harry, allowing a handful of Floopowder to cascade through his spread fingers.

'While the majority of Hogwarts fires are limited to impartial transportation only, the Headmaster is allowed the luxury of a fully-connected log fire.' stated McGonagall, as if that made everything okay.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath, and clenched his fist around the powder.

'I just still can't believe this happening.' he admitted, watching the flames dance inside of the kitchens large, ornate fireplace.

'Well you better start believing it Potter, because in seven days you will be giving your welcome feast speech, as is tradition, and in eight days you will be mystified by the amount of trouble teenage witches and wizards can conjure. By day nine you will be cursing me for instigating your position as Headmaster, and after two weeks you will have forgiven Albus for any misstep he may have made while you were at school, as we both know, the man was not above the occasional mistake.' McGonagall rattled these facts off as she vanished Harry's luggage and stifled the candles that burned along each side of the wall.

Bathed in the eerie glow of the kitchen fire, Harry resolved that he would not miss this house, and under no circumstance would he allow himself or any of his loved ones to become as distanced as he had become, or to lock themselves away from the world. He hurled the fistful of Floo powder into the flames, watching them erupt into an unnatural emerald-green glare. Stepping forwards into the chilling blaze, he thought of his God-father Sirius.

Knowing what he knew now, Harry would never have let his beloved God-father rot away in this cursed house. Sirius deserved better, and Harry knew with absolute certainty that Sirius would have made a far better Headmaster than Harry.

'Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Headmaster's Office.' he called into the empty house, his voice solemn and his head heavy, hoping that as he was swallowed into the fire, the ancient house of Black would be similarly crumble into the ground, never to be seen again.


	6. Potion Masters

**Potion Masters**

Upon opening his eyes, Harry was relieved to see the comfortable sight of his former mentor's old office - his dealings with Floo powder in the past had been less than ideal.

The office was a large and beautiful circular room, filled with the gentle hum of several dozen snoozing portraits; each one depicting a previous Headmaster or mistress of Hogwarts. The log fire crackled gently behind Harry, bathing the office in a warm glow. In Harry's day, the office had been filled with curious silver instruments, placed on spindle-legged tables and occasionally emitting puffs of smoke. Also missing the hanging perch that had once held Fawkes the phoenix, a remarkable bird that Harry had not seen since the death of Albus Dumbledore.

He approached the grand, claw-footed desk, and ornate, high-backed chair, and ran his hand over them reverently.

 _It all belongs to me now_ , he thought, a touch of awe creeping into his mind. The office had a soothing presence, and Harry could not help but feel calm amongst the crackling fire and splendour.

He spent the next five minutes exploring the finer details of this; the scattered notes across the desk revealed that the previous Headmaster, Leander Thursday, had been something of a tinkerer, and various pieces of his work were scattered across the office; nuts, bolts and screws, cogs and wheels and half-finished clocks. One of the desk drawers contained an abundance of hand-made music boxes, another held mechanical toy witches and wizards that could wound up by a keys poking out of their backs.

The office contained a private library, including books both familiar and unfamiliar, as well as several written in unrecognizable languages. One was made entirely of what Harry thought might be human skin.

There was a large, circular cabinet containing a variety of potion ingredients. Oak shelves containing parchment, quills and ink. Twin stair cases flanked the sides of the room, leading to a grand sleeping chamber and en-suite bathroom, further up was a large, dusty telescope that had been left to rust.

Upon returning to the office, Harry found himself examining the largest portrait, placed lopsidedly behind the desk. It was an oil painting not yet dulled by age, encased by a gleaming, gold frame.

It was Leander Thursday, and he stared back at Harry with stern, calculating eyes.

'Enjoying my office, I see.' he pointed out disapprovingly.

'Erm. Yeah, I guess.' said Harry, his face growing hot.

'Seventeen years, I've led this school, and in the blink of an eye it was taken from me.' he snarled, refusing to look Harry in the eye.

'Well, you did die.' argued Harry bluntly.

'Me? Dead? Preposterous. I've never felt more alive!' he huffed, throwing his arms in the air and performing a quick jig, with that he turned away from Harry dramatically, confirming the end of that particular conversation.

Harry blinked, and decided that Thursday's denial was the least of his problems. The man had died suddenly at eighty-three, and for all Harry knew could have lost some of his intellect at his ripe age. Of course, skilled wizards and witches could live well beyond a hundred years of age, and the details of Thursday's death were conveniently glossed over...

With a start Harry shook himself out of that train of thought, dismissing his Auror-like habit of creating suspicion where there was none. People died at a variety of ages, and it was no longer Harry's responsibility to poke his nose where it wasn't needed.

There was an abrupt knock at the door, and before Harry could verbalise a welcome, the door had swung open, admitting a tall, gaunt man that Harry had never met in his life.

'A password had not been set, so I assumed you were available for consultation,' he said, his voice slow and deliberate. 'I am Professor Troviken, Potions Master of Hogwarts and esteemed member of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.'

He bowed, revealing a perfectly hairless scalp that reflected the steadily burning log fire. His heavy, black robes and small, beady eyes seemed reminiscent of many archetypal potion brewers that Harry had encountered during his years as a wizard.

'Nice to meet you,' said Harry warmly, stepping forward and shaking his bony, outstretched hand. 'I'm Harry Potter, the new Head, unless this is all just a long, colourful dream I'm having.'

'Indeed, it seems almost too fanciful to be true, the war hero becoming the aged purveyor of wisdom,' he said, unsmiling. 'Especially as there are so many qualified instructors within the castle walls. I myself am entering my thirteenth year as Potions Master.'

The word 'aged' had irked Harry somewhat, but he was desperate to keep things civil between himself and his faculty, so he ignored the creeping feeling that he did not like this man at all.

'Yeah, I thought McGonagall was a dead cert for the job, doesn't want it though apparently,' Harry was practically forcing himself to make conversation. 'Still, I'm used to dark wizards, psychopaths and bank robbers, how hard can eleven year olds be?'

'Hard,' replied Troviken simply. 'In fact, I would beseech upon you to consider your options wisely when choosing your Deputy Headmaster. I served Professor Thursday, rest his soul, for five years as his loyal second in command. As you know, with the passing of the Head, the title once more becomes available, and you would do well nominate me as your delegate.'

Harry did not know that, but quickly felt relieved that he would be stuck with Troviken floating over his shoulder, as the man was losing influence with Harry with every passing second.

'You'll be considered in due time, Professor, as will every other member of staff,' decided Harry, if only to regain some authority. 'Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?'

A flash of anger rippled through Professor Troviken's hairless face, so brief that an unperceptive eye may not have caught it. Harry, his senses Auror-sharp, was all too aware of Troviken's feelings towards him.

'Yes, there was. Every year I implore upon the Headmaster to allow me to refine the curriculum in my Potions class. I wish to include the fine art of poison brewing in the current syllabus, it is a lost art after all, and should be taught to all those willing to learn.'

'Definitely not,' said Harry quickly. Harry himself had been poisoned nine times during his time as an Auror, as recorded by a tally chart his colleagues had set up in the office. 'The less people making poisons in the world, the better.'

The Potion Masters face had darkened with every word, the disagreement written boldly across the lines of his face. He merely nodded, and left without a word.

'Well, that went well.' sighed Harry, collapsing on the expertly carved and cushioned chair that sat behind his desk.

He found himself thinking back to something his second-in-command, and best friend, had often said while on duty: _Get all the rough stuff out of the way first, and then the day can only get better_.

Harry smiled, remembering that the comment often preceded Ron summoning hidden sandwiches from various places around the office.

Within minutes Harry picked up on high-heeled footsteps approaching his office. This time he was prepared, sitting up straight in his chair and linking his fingers over the desk, attempting to look as important as possible.

'Potter,' greeted McGonagall as she stomped into the office, glancing at Harry's faux-regal form. 'I just had the pleasure of meeting Olfwen Troviken, your Potions Master, he seemed to have soured somewhat since your arrival.'

'Lucky you. Did he mention he wanted to teach the students poison making?'

'Never-the-less, do try to be civil when conducting professional meetings, the last thing Hogwarts needs is a mutiny.'

'I came here to inform you that Professor Wilkes has resigned in protest of your abrupt ascension to Headmaster.'

'He – what?'

' _She_ was an adequate Charms professor at best, but has kept her position for several years due to her relation with Leander Thursday's late wife. She did not think you were a suitable replacement for her Great Uncle.'

'Well then, tell her I'm really sorry.' snorted Harry sarcastically.

'I'm not your messenger Owl, Potter.' she said, her eyes narrowing, much like an owls' might when faced with a heavy package. 'The recruitment of a new Charms Professor is your responsibility, Harry, and you would do well to begin your search immediately. Term begins in exactly seven days, and the syllabus will need to be adjusted to meet the new professor's standard.'

'Right. I'll do that. Right away.' said Harry, with more confidence than he felt. 'Right now, in fact.'

McGonagall nodded curtly, and made to leave, hesitating at the door. Harry had the sneaking suspicion that she was waiting for him to ask her for help searching for a new Charms Professor. Harry refused to give her the satisfaction, and grinned at her all the way out of the door.

As soon as the door had closed behind her, Harry began to worry. The Auror department had a designated recruitment office, that Harry himself had very little to do with, at least until it came to deciding on which apprentices he would be taking under his wing. He wouldn't know the first place to start when it came to sourcing the potential candidates. A cold sweat had begun to form on his forehead.

'Excuse me, Harry, if you don't mind, this may be an ideal time to put us portraits to good use,' came the familiar, soothing voice of Albus Dumbledore.

Harry's clutched his chest as his heart rate exploded – that was a voice he had not heard in almost thirty years. Albus' oil-stroke portrait was smiling down at Harry through half-moon spectacles, as Harry struggled to contain the shock that had ricocheted through his body.

'P-Professor,' stumbled Harry, standing to attention without any real reason.

'As you know several of my fellow former Headmasters and Headmistresses portraits have counterparts in prestigious magical institutions across the country. For example, my friend Phineas here can walk freely into his portrait at twelve Grimmauld Place,' Dumbledore paused, as if waiting for a response from Phineas Black, who continued to snore gently in his frame, 'in this case, you will be glad to learn that Otto Lambert was a twentieth century editor-in-chief for the Daily Prophet, and I am sure would be happy to arrange placement of an advert in tomorrow's edition of the Prophet.'

Harry was somewhat taken aback by Dumbledore's casual tone. He quickly pulled himself together, knowing that the affection in Albus Dumbledore's voice was merely a shallow memory of his former mentor. Portraits were renowned for providing almost life-like recreations of lost friends, loved-ones and distinguished wizards, but they were limited, and were strictly forbidden as forms of counselling.

'Thank you Albus,' Harry forced himself to keep his voice steady and formal, 'Otto, if you could do as Albus suggested I would be very grateful.'

'At once, Headmaster!' poured Otto dramatically, dropping into a graceful bow and strutting out of his portrait. He did not appear in his neighbours hanging frame, and instead had disappeared into the counterpart portrait that hung somewhere inside the Daily Prophet's head office.

Dumbledore winked at Harry and turned away, burying his crooked nose inside a miniscule book. Harry watched him for several seconds, and then turned to examine the other portraits.

Some he recognized, such as the previously mentioned Phineas Nigellus Black, the great-great-grandfather of Harry's deceased Godfather, Sirius Black. Beside him was Dexter Fortescue, whose portrait was linked to another inside the Ministry of Magic. Dozens of other oil-painted Masters and Mistresses hung haphazardly from the office walls, including the smallest of them all; Severus Snape.

'Hello Snape,' said Harry gloomily, feeling somewhat responsible for the miserable looking Snape, who glided, bat-like, around his portrait impatiently, ignoring Harry's greeting, as expected.

It was Harry who fought to have the portrait installed, and to have Snape's term as Headmaster officially added to the record books. Many members of the Wizarding community still believed Severus Snape to have been working for Lord Voldemort during his reign as Headmaster, but Harry knew otherwise, and he had insisted Snape's innocence after his death, speaking out against a planned smear-campaign from the Daily Prophet.

Harry had briefly hoped that this version of Severus Snape may show some warmth towards him – after all, Harrys' middle child had been named in honour of Snape's efforts in the war – but the portrait accurately reflected the living Snape's feelings towards Harry; never-ending resentment.

Harry had found himself on the grand expanse of swaying trees and grass that made up Hogwarts grounds. He had decided to embark upon a walk through the castle to clear his mind, but the corridors of Hogwarts had been coated in nostalgia, and eventually became a source of claustrophobia to Harry.

The grounds, however, with their roaming fields of green, did much to soothe Harry's frazzled mind. The last days of summer wind blew down from the northern hills, breathing fresh air into Harry's lungs.

As he walked past the twin gargoyles that flanked the entrance to Hogwarts castle, Harry spotted a towering figure in the distance going about its business alongside a wooden cabin that was all too familiar to Harry.

What started as a brisk walk had turned into a jog as Harry neared Hagrid's hut. His aching body protested, but Harry desperately needed a friend, someone he loved unconditionally, and someone who believed in him no matter what.

Unfortunately, this was not the person Harry found outside Hagrid's hut.

'Harry Potter is it? Blimey, never thought I'd meet _the_ Harry Potter, let alone call him my boss,' called the voice of a tall, simple looking youth whose hands and clothing were caked in mud.

He was taller than Harry by about a foot, although his poor posture hid his height somewhat. Harry was momentarily speechless, as this youth could not be old enough to have graduated from Hogwarts, let alone be in charge of its' grounds.

'Where are my manners? I'm Hamish, Hamish Groves, assistant gamekeeper and keeper of several keys,' he said quickly, his voice somehow both husky and squeaky at the same time.

'Good to meet you Hamish,' said Harry automatically, scanning the lad up and down and accepting his hand. _Assistant gamekeeper_ , thought Harry, still somewhat perplexed. Harry's eyes fell to the boys belt, upon which was holstered a familiar pink umbrella. Opening his mouth, Harry was just about to enquire about the health of his friend Hagrid, when several branches snapped somewhere off to Harry's right.

'Is that – 'Arry! Is that you?' came an entirely different voice, one gruff and aging, yet filled with warmth.

Harry turned, a smile breaking out across his face, to see Hagrid strutting out of the forest, a string of plucked pheasants hanging from one hand, and an intimidating crossbow in the other. Both of these he dropped to the ground as he hurried towards Harry, his bushy mane of steel-grey hair billowing in the wind.

Before Harry knew it he had been hoisted from the ground into a back-breaking hug, his face pressed into the fur of Hagrid's coat.

In that brief moment, he was a boy again, and he allowed his troubles to seep away as he nestled into Hagrid's massive embrace.

'Ruddy good ter see you Harry! The officials 'ave been tight lipped an' all, but the way old McGonagall was talkin', Harry, I should've known!' he had released Harry, who quickly found his footing. 'Headmaster, eh Harry? Probably the youngest we've had in, what, a hundred years?'

'More, according to Professor McGonagall,' said Harry, shaking slightly, and not because of the cold, 'Hagrid it's … well, it's bloody good to see you.'

Hagrid beamed, his wiry eyebrows disappearing into the wild growth of hair atop his head. 'Course, you were always goin' ter end up here eventually, weren't yeh Harry?' he said, walking back to claim his pheasants.

'I was?' said Harry, turning to watch Hamish, his curiosity returning as the boy wandered around the side of the cabin.

'Course yeh were, wizards like you were born ter teach,' he said happily, 'Not that you'll be doin' much teaching, leave that to yer subordinates, eh Harry?' he winked, and wheezed out a chuckle.

Hagrid's enthusiasm was infectious, and Harry couldn't help but smile. They stood there a moment, two lifelong friends, grinning stupidly through their beards, before a loud squawk from the other side of the hut broke their trance.

'Oh!' exclaimed Hagrid, eyes widening, 'You're in for a treat Harry.'

'I am?' said Harry, suddenly alarmed, 'Not skrewts, Hagrid, you know I can't do skrewts.'

'Nah, wandered off inter the forest ages ago, you'll like these.'

They walked the perimeter of the cabin, approaching the always-fruitful pumpkin patch that Harry cultivated year round. Hamish was crouched over a nest of some king, towels in his hand.

Harry crept closer, sticking to Hagrid's side in case he was about to be attacked by one of Hagrid's newest projects. He was fortunate, however, because inside the nest were four large, creamy-white eggs. One of which had hatched, and a tiny, beaked head of a baby hippogryph poked out of the cracked shell.

'Adorable, ain't they?' cooed Hagrid, his voice choking with affection. It was a rare moment for Harry, in which that Hagrid's opinion was not clouded by his love of all things strange and sinister. Black, birdlike eyes stared dolefully up at them, and the hippogryph chirped happily as it struggled to leave the comfort of its shell.

'Pass the pheasants will you, Hagrid?' ordered Hamish, wiping stray blood and sinew from the hippogryph's golden coat. Hagrid dropped the pheasants at Hamish's side and patted him on the back with a great, saucepan sized hand.

'Struck gold with Hamish, I did, e's a good lad.' said Hagrid as he bustled around the cabin kitchen. The kettle whistled and an owl hooted from somewhere in the rafters, and Harry felt very much at home. He helped himself to an egg tart, and watched happily as Hagrid prodded his log fire, which was crawling with flame-red salamanders.

'Is he a squib?' asked Harry with genuine curiosity.

'Nah, half-blood,' replied Hagrid, using a patchwork mitten to transfer the kettle from the fire, ''E was expelled two years ago for sellin' shrunken heads to fifth years, made a pretty penny mind you.'

That would explain it, Hagrid knew full well the fallout of being expelled from Hogwarts, and no doubt had taken pity on Hamish.

'Righ,' grunted Hagrid, place a tray of tea upon the table and taking a seat opposite Harry, 'it's jolly good havin' you back Harry, don't you doubt that for a second, but last I 'erd Ginny was worried sick about yeh.'

'Must've been a while ago then,' said Harry solemnly, 'I saw her yesterday.'

'Well that's ruddy good to hear Harry, always knew you kids were soul mates,' began Hagrid, happily pouring tea for the both of them, 'the way she used to look at yeh, and Ron bein' yer best friend an' all.'

'She, um…' Harry started, looking into Hagrid's beetle-black eyes, his great smile hadn't left his face since Harry arrived, 'She's fine. We're fine. It's all fine.'

Hagrid nodded enthusiastically, his grey beard shaking stray hears into his cup of tea. Harry, desperate to change the subject after lying to one of his best friends, deemed this a good time to seek Hagrid's advice.

'That Troviken bloke came to see me, asking about the Deputy Headmaster position, seemed a bit shady to me.'

''Course 'e does, he's a potioneer,' chuckled Hagrid, 'shady comes with the job, I reckon. Still 'e does a fine job runnin' Ravenclaw house.'

'He's Head of Ravenclaw?' asked Harry in surprise after a sip of tea, 'I thought he must've been a Slytherin, the way he talked about poisons.'

'Oh yeah, Troviken loves his poisons, 'elped me with a Bundimun infestation last year in the Owlery. Really knows 'is stuff, that man.'

'Who're the other Heads?' asked Harry ashamedly, this was probably the sort of information he should know.

'Well, you've got old Bathsheda Babbling, head of Hufflepuff,' said Hagrid, after several moments thought, 'and then Neville, of course, taking on the Gryffindors.'

That came to a pleasant surprise to Harry, who had assumed Neville wouldn't want the added responsibility, what with being co-landlord of the Leaky Cauldron with his wife, Hannah.

'Done wonders for the house, our Neville, won the Quidditch cup last year, then again we did 'ave your Lily playin' seeker.'

 _Lily's letter_ , thought Harry suddenly, recalling Tabby's comments earlier. He hoped it had been packed away with the rest of his things.

'…'course you'll be after a new head of Slytherin,' continued Hagrid, regaining Harry's attention, 'what with McGonagall taking over transfiguration. Anyone in mind?'

'Um, no. Not yet. I've got to deal with the Charms position first, and find a Deputy Head, and do a hundred other things, I expect.' Said Harry glumly, not knowing where to begin.

'Well if anyone around 'ere knows about responsibility, it's you Harry.' And he raised his cup of tea in salute, draining it in one mighty gulp, beard hair and all.

Before Harry could respond the cabin door had swung open, and Hamish entered, shaking off a heavy shawl, careful to not get any of the blood from his hands on the material. Harry nodded at him, and returned to Hagrid, who had paused oddly, watching Hamish with a glazed over look in his eyes.

Hamish walked past the couple, stopping at a stone wash basin to bathe the blood from his hands. Hagrid's eyes flickered with puzzlement as he turned to watch the young lad, who whistled tunelessly as he went about himself.

Suddenly Hagrid stood, kicking back his chair and pointing accusingly at Hamish.

'Oi!' he growled, 'What're you doing in here? Lost are yeh?'

Hamish's eyes flickered to Harry, but otherwise, he remained perfectly calm in the face of the angered half-Giant.

'Hagrid, it's me, Hamish, your assistant,' he pleaded; his tone patient and soothing, 'Think about the hippogryph, you remember the hippogryph whelps, don't you?'

Hagrid was breathing deeply, the anger radiating from him, and for a brief moment, Harry rested his hand on his sheathed wand, ready to interfere if necessary.

'Hamish!' said Hagrid suddenly, his demeanour completely changed, 'How're the pups, eh? Got 'em all cleaned up did yeh?' he smiled broadly at Harry, and then shuffled past him to the door, keen to get a look at his new litter.

Harry stood, dumbfounded, until he found Hamish stood beside him, looking out of the cabin, his face full of concern.

'It's getting worse,' he muttered, stirring a cup of tea of his own, 'Some kind of brain-sickness. Nurse Clearwater had a fancy name for it, cursed if I can remember though.'

'Does it happen often?' asked Harry, following Hamish out of the cabin. They found Hagrid crouched over a small coop, where four infant hippogryph's sauntered around happily, occasionally being thrown a treat from Hagrid.

'Once or twice a week, more if he's been drinking,' clarified Hamish sadly, leaning against the hut.

Harry watched Hagrid play with the litter of hippogryph's, taking solace that his good friend still found joy in his old age. He supposed it must get lonely at Hogwarts in the summer, and he couldn't blame Hagrid at all for wanting to keep Hamish around, in fact Harry found himself full of gratitude for the young man. The responsibilities should have been Harry's, he thought. Hagrid was his oldest friend, after all, but Harry had been unaware of any growing illness in Hagrid's mind. He had been unaware of a lot of things, he thought, his mood darkening.

Harry was running from something, some dark menace he glimpsed at the edge of his vision. His surroundings morphed, becoming the Hogwarts grounds, and then Hogsmeade, and then settling on Diagon Alley. All around him were faces, both familiar and unfamiliar, their edges blurred and quivering, and their expressions scared and helpless. He passed a flaming wreckage, recognizing it as Gringotts, the Wizarding bank, and suddenly there was flame all around him, in the street and across the shop fronts. The fire took shape, becoming all varieties of dark, tormented beings.

The fire came from Harry's wand; his arm was outstretched, stiff and unyielding. He wished for it to stop, for his wand to snap or his arm to be severed at the elbow. He yelled for help, but the figures had disappeared – all but one.

Lily walked towards him from the smoke and the ruin, her clothes burned away, revealing red, blistering skin, and her hair nearly burned to nothing.

The fire had carved welts across her face and neck, the fire that threatened to engulf them both. His daughter came to a stop in front of him, her face passive and uncaring of the wreckage around her.

She smiled suddenly, and dark smoke escaped from her lips.

'I love you Dad,' she said happily.

Harry screamed, and woke up.


	7. The Lion, The Dwarf and the Squib

**The Lion, the Dwarf, and the Squib**

Harry's head was decidedly moist, he realised upon waking. Tabby held a damp compress to his forehead, and was staring pityingly at Harry as he shuddered, looking wide-eyed around the master bedroom attached to the Headmaster's office.

He opened his mouth to thank Tabby, but was interrupted by a violent bout of thirst. His throat clenched in protest against the sudden burn, and Harry knew without doubt that the only thing that could fix this contagion was a hearty flagon of liquor.

Harry cleared his throat, found his wand, and coughed out an 'Accio whiskey!' throwing his arm out in a random direction.

This was a spell that had worked perfectly at Grimmauld Place, but in the middle of the night, in the grand four-poster bed that took up most of the space in the Headmasters chamber, nothing happened.

'Oh sir,' mumbled Tabby, not meeting Harry's eye, 'alcohol of any kinds has been banned, sir, by order of Professor McGonagall.'

Harry felt a sudden, brimming rage boil to the surface. _Curse that old witch_ , he thought vehemently.

'I has brewed you a pot of Milkthistle tea, sir, for the –'

'I don't want your stupid tea!' he snarled, throwing his wand against the wall, sparks spewing from its tip.

Harry regretted the words instantly, as Tabby's eyes reformed to show the full hurt Harry had dealt her. She took two steps away from Harry's bed, letting the compress fall limply to the floor, and then disappeared with a loud _crack_ , a single tear falling to the floor from where her face had been just a second earlier.

His concern lasted a few more moments, before the thirst took over again. He leapt out of bed and found the pot of tea sitting atop a table at the edge of the room, and began gulping down great mouthfuls, not caring that the hot liquid scalded his throat.

He didn't stop until the tea was drained, and still the itch in his throat would not subside.

He climbed back into bed, and stuffed his face into one of the squishy pillows, attempting to clear his mind.

Suddenly he was recalling his nightmare, visions of rubble and ruin piercing his thoughts. The wounded face of his only daughter floated to the forefront of his mind, and that sickly, sweet smile. The way the welted skin crinkled around her eyes and her lips cracked and bled as she said those three words.

Harry whimpered, unashamed, into his pillow. He couldn't sleep now, not with the memories of his daughter's injuries haunting his dreams, or the destruction caused by Harry's own wand in the streets of Diagon Alley during his fit of rage.

And then, when he felt like he could not take another second of suffering – there was a loud click from somewhere along the edge of the room.

Harry lifted his face from the soiled pillow, peering into the darkness, where an eerie blue glow shone from the depths of a large cabinet. The door had swung open of its own accord, revealing a stone basin within.

With an aching chest, and a prickling throat, he dragged himself towards the cabinet, approaching with an Auror's caution. The basin was all too familiar to Harry, with its smooth, glossy finish and ancient runes etched into its side. Inside was a silvery vapour that swirled, cloud-like, around the basin.

It was a pensieve, an object used to store and view memories. Harry had never used one himself, but he could vividly recall the sensation of entering another person's memory, both with and without permission.

His mentor, and the former resident of this office, had frequently used the artefact, and Harry instinctively knew what he must do.

Recovering his wand, he placed its tip against his own temple, and forced himself to recall that frosty evening at Diagon Alley.

He felt a budding pressure against the side of his skull as the memory bubbled to the surface, vague at first, but then increasing in detail.

 _He was recovering from a horrid cold, and could smell his wife's favourite perfume when he greeted her in the market, outside of the newly built ice-cream parlour where he had arranged to meet his wife and daughter..._

 _...and then it was all flame and ruin and carnage. An explosion, from somewhere unknown, had ripped the street apart._

A thin tendril of memory escaped from Harry's head, caught on the tip of his wand. His hand shook – he had never seen Dumbledore struggle with extracting a memory like this.

 _He could almost smell the charred bodies and taste the blood in his mouth. He had recovered quicker than most, his wand already in his hand, searching for some sign of an attacker through the fog and debris._

 _His wife stirred – good, she was alive, unlike whoever had caused this. There was a small movement ahead, somewhere near Gringotts bank. A figure, clad in a thick, dark travelling cloak, walked purposefully away from the incident. He reeked of dark magic – Harry had a sixth sense for these sorts of things._

 _Looking from the shrouded figure, to the prone form of his dear wife, Harry stood, taking aim at the man, and letting his fury flow through him, from his heart to his mind, channelling his overflowing emotion through his wand-tip._

Fiend _, thought Harry, conjuring a mass of flame. It writhed and convulsed as it erupted from his wand, taking the form of a terrible winged beast. The power that radiated from the beast struck a chord of fear within Harry, but he doubled his focus, and sent the flaming being surging towards the man._

 _At the precisely the same time, his daughter struggled to her feet – she had been blown a great distance by the explosion, landing perfectly between Harry and the man he had cursed._

 _It was too late to stop the spell, even if Harry knew how. His daughter, her reactions honed from her extensive Quidditch training, attempted to throw herself out of the way of the spell, but still it ripped through her, flinging her another twenty feet._

 _With Lily out of the way, the spell was free to engulf its true target, wrapping itself around the figure, and igniting him from head to foot. The fiendfyre ripped him apart, until the only thing left was a puddle of ash and gore on the ground._

The memory detached from Harry's head and hung loosely from his wand. Without hesitating, he forced it into the wispy pensieve, allowing it to mingle and join with the silver vapour. For a moment, a flash of orange writhed inside the basin, before fading to the bottom of the bowl.

Harry fell to his knees, the effort of the sorcery exhausting him. Tears speckled his face, and for a moment he could not for the life of him recall why, before he remembered the ordeal at Diagon Alley – but the memory was a dull smudge in his imagination, a vague recollection, rather than the vivid horror it had become inside Harry's traumatised mind.

He felt a sort of numbness. He knew why the pain remained and the sadness of his daughter's injuries, those things would forever remain…

But the memory no longer haunted him, and Harry was left only with a dull throbbing inside of his head, and a new memory, of an unopened letter from his beloved daughter in the drawer of his desk.

 _Dad,_

 _How did it go? Mum won't talk about it, in fact she's been spending a lot of time with Granny, have you been to visit them yet? They'd love to see you! Gramps has started walking around with a hearing aide, it's a sort of Muggle device that makes you hear better, but it keeps picking up the wireless radio. Granny hates it._

 _Look, Uncle Ron won't tell me when you're coming home for good, or when you're going back to work. In fact nobody will tell me anything, what's going on? I know you say never to listen to rumours, but people are saying some pretty crazy things._

 _Write back soon, I'm staying in Hollyhead until Christmas, but I'll hopefully see you at our next game._

 _Love you,_

 _Lily._

Harry placed the letter carefully back into his desk drawer, wondering how he could possibly put the events of the past two days into words. He would find a way, eventually, but not now. Not when there were a hundred things to do.

He had not slept well, but regardless he threw himself into his work. He had a stack of letters the size of his torso – resumes from potential Charms professors who had responded to the morning advertisement. They were still arriving by the handful as Harry finished a lonely breakfast of eggs and toast at his desk.

Within three hours he had sorted the letters into three piles: the good, the bad, and the unintelligible. From here, he re-combed the good pile, picking out the truly remarkable, which left him with nine potential interviewees.

He hastily scrawled nine invitations to join him for interviews tomorrow evening. The first time he signed a letter as Professor Potter, he stared at the letter for a full minute, feeling wholly undeserving of the title.

This time, upon traversing the Hogwarts corridors en route to the Owlery, where he sent away his responses with a fleet of aging barn owls, Harry fought back the urge to let his mind drown in the melancholy of memory and nostalgia. In fact, he made it back to his office feeling positively chirpy, having not bumped into Argus Filch, who he had found out that morning still roamed the corridors as the maniacal caretaker.

He was greeted with an interesting sight as he approached the office entrance. Neville Longbottom, dressed in formal Professors robes and sporting a newly grown and expertly trimmed moustache, was in mid-argument with the gargoyle that guarded the entryway.

'He's my best friend, I know he's in there and I don't need a password!' shouted Neville, red faced and pointing a threatening finger at the gargoyles hooked nose.

'Neville!' exclaimed Harry, allowing a spark of joy into his expression for the first time that day, 'I changed the password this morning, I guess I should've told someone.'

'Harry!' and before he knew it Neville had bypassed Harry's offered hand and was holding him in a tight hug. 'You're Headmaster, Harry!'

'Yeah, I am,' said Harry, not knowing how else to respond.

'McGonagall sent out letters yesterday, I thought I'd come back early and see if you needed any help.'

'Thanks Neville,' said Harry gratefully, and then an idea struck him, 'Oh and Neville, you're my new Deputy Head, did you know?'

'What – me?' he said, perplexed. Harry smiled as he Neville paused in thought, as if waiting for Harry to tell him it was a bad joke.

'Yeah. You.' Harry confirmed. 'It was you or Troviken, and you're less likely to poison me in my sleep.'

'Oh, well, I guess he'll just poison the both of us.' he said happily, and Harry knew without asking that Neville had also been on the wrong side of Olfwen Troviken. 'Well, if you're sure Harry, then I guess we have a lot of work to do.'

'Yeah, loads.' Harry said, turning to the stone gargoyle, who had watched the exchange with a bored expression on his face. ' _Padfoot_.'

The gargoyle nodded, and revolved slowly around, revealing the circular staircase that led to Harry's office. They walked side-by-side up the stairs, exchanging small talk and allowing the ease of their friendship to return. Neville stayed at the Leaky Cauldron during holidays, which he managed alongside his wife, Hannah, whom they had gone to school with.

'We could throw a little party if you fancied Harry? Close the pub down for the day and just have friends and family over.'

'Oh no,' said Harry at once, and then at Neville's hurt expression he added: 'Arthur's a bit troublesome lately; Ginny's been staying at the burrow to take care of him, and well…'

He trailed off, unwilling to fabricate a deeper lie for the sake of warding away one of his oldest friends.

'Neville, the last few months have been, well, a bit of a blur… I just need to take things slowly, you know?' said Harry finally, looking Neville in the eye.

Neville's moustache twitched and his face softened into a tired smile. 'I know Harry, of course I know.'

'Excellent,' said Harry, moving away from that particular subject. 'Right, how long has Hagrid been showing signs of deterioration?'

'Ah, yes… It's been getting increasingly worse for the last three years,' said Neville sadly, looking at his feet, 'Thursday tried to get rid of him last year, but the teachers convinced him to keep him on.'

'I want that Hamish fellow at his side at all hours, where's he staying?'

'Hogsmeade, with his Uncle I think,' answered Neville immediately.

'Move him into the castle, double his pay. I'm worried he's the only thing keeping Hagrid together.' ordered Harry, and he watched as Neville summoned a roll of parchment and a quill, and began jotting down a to-do list.

'While we're at it, figure out if any of our Professors were in Slytherin, we need a new Head of House. Bugger it, go see McGonagall and see if we can erase the entire house.'

Neville paused, and looked up at Harry.

'I'm joking,' Harry clarified.

'Oh,' said Neville, 'Well, that shouldn't be too hard. The rest of the Professors should be arriving today – why don't we go have a cup of tea in the Staff Room, and say a few hello's?'

'Ahh…' said Harry, suddenly nervous, 'I mean, yeah, I guess it wouldn't hurt.'

Harry tried in vain to shake off the feeling of dread as he stalked Neville towards the staff room. His dealings with colleagues had so far been reduced to McGonagall and Hagrid, two of his oldest companions, and in all honesty, neither of these reunions had left Harry in much of a good mood.

McGonagall was as strict and poignant as ever, and even though Harry could sometimes glimpse affection in her mannerisms, she very much remained a figure of authority to him. Hagrid had done much to cheer Harry's mood, but that had been countered by his sudden lapse in memory, a clear indicator that his mind was not what it used to be.

He hoped things would only improve from here, and with his head held high, he followed Neville into the Hogwarts Staff Room.

The room was large and comfortable, with a mismatched collection of cushioned chairs spanning the outside of the room in an inward facing circle, as well as a roaring fire set into the nearest wall, over which was a large notice board, with various scraps of parchment pinned to it.

Portraits hung around the room, as did various certificates and the occasional trophy or medallion. Another seemingly permanent feature of the room was a gently snoring Professor Binns sitting snugly in a chair directed at the fire.

'Ah, so you didn't escape in the night, Potter,' said McGonagall emotionlessly, without looking up from her newspaper, 'Good to see you Professor Longbottom, how is your Grandmother?'

'Um, she died twelve years ago.' said Neville bluntly.

Professor looked up from her paper, and gave Neville an inquisitive look, 'My condolences.' she said simply.

Beyond Professor McGonagall, an ancient specimen stirred in her chair, turning to get a better look at Harry. She was barely recognizable as Bathsheda Babbling, the Ancient Runes Professor who was entering the twilight of her already long life.

'Harry Potter,' she croaked, squinting up at him, 'I have not forgotten what you did for this school, and I wish you a fulfilling tenure as interim Headmaster.'

'Wow, thanks,' said Harry, warmed by her support, 'and I wish you another successful year as Head of Hufflepuff.'

She scrunched her face into a fond smile, and Harry took that as a moment of victory. He had won at least one of the Professors to his side.

From there, Neville introduced him to two Professors who were closer to Harry's age; Professor Tomkirk, a prematurely balding Arithmancy teacher, and Professor Puffett, who's thick Welsh accent made her almost impossible to understand, although Harry eventually surmised she taught Astronomy. Harry was also surprised to see that his former schoolmate Penelope Clearwater was the current Patron, in charge of everything to do with the Hospital wing - she remarked that she hadn't seen Percy Weasley, her childhood boyfriend, for many years, but his children were very well behaved.

'And this,' said Neville, reaching the last of the Professors in attendance, 'is Artemis Knowles, our Muggle Studies expert.'

'Wonderful to meet you Harry, my eldest brother is a huge fan of yours,' he said cheerily, flashing a perfect smile. He was young, clean shaven and startling handsome. He also, to Harry's surprise, had a shiny pistol holstered to his belt.

'Oh, excuse the revolver,' he remarked, happily patting the weapon, 'evens the odds a bit, does my little friend. Not all of us are blessed enough to have wands.'

'Artemis is a squib, although his three brothers were all Hogwarts students in their day.' said Neville, eyeing the Muggle weapon apprehensively.

'Oh,' said Harry, 'That must've been hard.'

'At first yes, but I was always fascinated with Muggles, such resourceful creatures.'

'Are you, erm... Sure that it's safe?'

'Well, it has a safety notch, can you say the same for your wand?' he said defensively, and Harry begrudgingly saw his point. 'I'm joshing you of course. During term times it will be safely locked away in my office, with the rest of my little toys.'

'Well then, I don't see a problem.' Harry said, partially because McGonagall was eyeing Artemis with distaste.

'I take the safety of our students very seriously, Harry. Professor Thursday gave me the opportunity to finally occupy this castle, after years of hearing stories of Hogwarts' magnificence from my brothers. I would do nothing to jeopardize that opportunity.' he said with confidence, and Harry found himself warming to him.

Their conversation carried on over a cup of tea, as Neville buried himself in his notes and newly found responsibilities, occasionally begging advice from Minerva. Artemis admitted to not being a fan of Quidditch, but having a deep, intense support for West Ham football club, as well as being a semi-professional Gobstones player. He became positively ecstatic when Harry described his upbringing with the Dursley's, something he tried his best not to reminisce about, and had a much firmer grasp on how things like electricity worked than Harry himself, who was old fashioned when it came to technology, something his children often pointed out.

'That's almost everyone then,' said Neville, looking up from his notes during a lull in the conversation, 'not counting Sybil and Firenze, who you already know. All that's left is Professor Alviss.'

Artemis let out a dry chuckle at the name, one Harry vaguely recognized. He knew Alviss only from descriptions made by his children, who would sometimes discuss his unorthodox approach to Defence Against the Dark Arts; he had once taken James on a school trip to a destroyed fort in Ireland, where they spent the weekend studying Red Caps.

'He's probably out hunting Dragons, or werewolves.' guessed Artemis, laughing into his mug.

Neville shook his head and sat back in his chair, hiding a smile. Harry also could swear he saw a slight curl of McGonagall's mouth.

Harry was spared asking what made Alviss so wonderfully amusing, because at that exact moment the staff room door swung open, revealing the immense form of Hagrid.

'Mornin' all,' he said brightly.

'Just a bit further, eh Hagrid, that'll do it,' came a gruff voice from somewhere behind Hagrid, Harry perked up in his seat, curious to see where the voice came from, and watched as Hagrid turned, to reveal a stout Dwarf hanging onto his back, his fists entangled in Harry's steel-grey hair, and his boots placed firmly on the small of his back.

'Ah, Potter, apologies for the theatrics,' he said, approaching Harry and offering a hand. He just reached Harry's belly button, and to add to the already established collection of weapons inside the staff room, he had a lethal looking battle-axe hanging from his back.

'Great to meet you, I've heard good things.' he said, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. Alviss smiled, revealing several missing teeth that were visible through his bushy beard. 'I've got to say, my children failed to mention you were a Dwarf.'

'Wee buggers, those Potters,' he laughed, 'and the Weasley's are just as bad.'

'Hear, hear' quipped McGonagall.

Alviss stomped past Harry, and slammed his axe down on the counter beside the steaming pot of coffee. 'Shame about the ale restrictions.' he muttered, helping himself to coffee.

'So, an axe?' said Harry, unsure of how to approach the situation.

'Hey, if the Muggle lover gets a gun, I can carry an axe, it's my right as a Norse Dwarf,' he said hotly, although he grinned as he spoke, 'If my cousins want to prance around dressed as cupid and hand out love letters and roses, then it's up to me to uphold the culture of the Norse Dwarves.'

He picked up his axe, pointed it a row of books that sat atop a shelf, and mumbled an incantation. In turn, the books transformed into stuffed animals, each one pinker than the next.

'Plus,' said Alviss, 'It's got my wand embedded in the handle.'

Harry let this all sink in, looking around the room in wonder. On paper this was not the team of Professors he had hoped to be spending a year overseeing, but watching them interact he felt himself growing less nervous. Hagrid had engaged Professor Puffett in a conversation regarding the sleeping cycle of vampire bats. Alviss had offered McGonagall a pink teddy bear, which she refused with a smile, drawing laughs from Artemis and Neville. Binns continued to sleep by the fire, which had caused orange ripples to dance across his ghostly body.

Even when Troviken entered the room to collect some papers, Harry's spirits did not dampen. He was perfectly polite to Harry, and the rest of the staff, although he did note that Neville avoided the man's eye, and Troviken left as soon as his task was accomplished.

'So at what point will you begin delivering the acceptance letters to this year's crop of Muggle-born wizards and witches?' McGonagall asked Harry casually, causing his stomach to constrict. He hopes Neville knew something about this, but when he turned to his Deputy for help, he found Neville staring back at him, blank-faced.

McGonagall clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and with a swish of her wand conjured a small stack of pristine envelopes, stamped with the Hogwarts crest. She levitated them towards Neville, who took them awkwardly in his arms.

'You may want to accompany Neville, Headmaster,' she said pointedly, staring at Harry over her spectacles, 'it would give you a chance to greet some other of your first year students before the year begins.'

Her logic was sound, but Harry had just spent the last eighteen years coaching his children into becoming responsible adults, and the last thing he wanted was to repeat the process. He shrugged in defeat, knowing his dreams of a peaceful life were over as soon as he accepted McGonagall's offer to be Headmaster. Neville looked quite pleased at the suggestion, and Harry felt gratified to know that at least somebody looked forward to spending time with him.

'Try not to set a wardrobe on fire this time,' ordered Neville sternly, nursing his singed fingers.

Harry nodded apologetically, although he knew full well that the best way to convince a family that their offspring had developed magical powers was quick, dirty display of magic.

'Where too now, Harry?' asked Neville, smoothing down his moustache and looking around the quiet street, where several Muggles went about their business, casting Harry and Neville odd looks.

'That would be... Wulfric's Home for Lost Boys, Epsom, London.' recited Harry, 'is that an orphanage?'

Neville had grasped Harry's arm without responding, and in the next moment they were being squeezed through the air at a thousand miles per hour.

Harry clenched his abdomen as they landed, willing himself not to vomit. It seemed to work, and Harry shot Neville a scathing look as he nodded towards a shabby two-story building settled between a foul-smelling butchers and a derelict public restroom.

 _Wulfric's Home for Lost Boys (est. 1980)_

 _Please refrain from putting your hand into the orphans' mouth, for risk of losing a finger._

'Charming,' said Harry, 'well, you can handle this one then.'

Neville mumbled a response and approached the orphanage, careful not to step on any of the shattered glass that littered the pavement.

There was a feeble chime as the door opened to admit the two wizards. The interior of the room consisted of peeling wallpaper, creaky floorboards, a single desk and a wholly unconcerned secretary leaning over a rectangular device that was emitting videographic entertainment, much like the Dursley's old television.

'Excuse me,' said Neville, after clearing his throat pointedly, 'we're looking for a Mister Wulfric?'

'Wulf?' she wheezed, 'You'll only catch him during inspections... You two looking to adopt?' she added, raising an eyebrow.

Neville choked on his response as Harry's face reddened. The secretary was looking between them, nonplussed.

'Um. No,' answered Neville, giving Harry a sideways glance, 'We're here to offer one of the children under your care a place at our school.'

'What school's this then?' she enquired, suddenly interested.

'It's called Hogwarts, we think Casper may have the qualities we're looking for.' said Neville sternly.

'Oh,' she said knowingly, 'Magicians school is it?'

Neville and Harry exchanged looks of alarm, and Harry tentatively fingered his wand, ready to deliver a memory altering charm if required.

'Our Casper's mad for magic tricks, always showing the other boys. Mind you, I'm never sure where he finds the rabbits.'

Harry allowed his hand to relax, relieved at this turn of events. Neville smiled warmly, and played into the story, until the secretary was near-ecstatic about ferrying off one of her wards to their 'Magicians school'.

They followed the woman down several corridors, and took a flight of stairs up to the next level, where the older boys lived. The majority of the doors they passed were locked shut, but several stood ajar, revealing little details about the children's living quarters, such as plates of food allowed to sit and gather dust and mould, or bedrooms rearranged to create pits lined with cushions for the boys to wrestle.

They eventually stopped outside a door labelled ' _Casper Shaw_ ', which Neville politely rapped his knuckles upon.

They waited several seconds, before the secretary lost her patience, and hammered on the door loud enough to rouse everyone in the building. There was still no response, and the woman tried the door handle - locked.

 _Alohomora_ , thought Harry, his hand clutching his wand inside his pocket. There was a click, and the door swung open of its own accord. The woman gave the wizards a questioning look and entered the bedroom.

It was impeccably neat, including a perfectly made bed and a row of books that had been arranged alphabetically. The only feature of the room was a bedside table, upon which lay a shiny, black top hat, and a Muggles interpretation of a wand; long and black, with a white tip.

'The little bugger,' muttered the secretary, crossing the room in three strides and sticking her head out of the open window. 'Must've done a runner in the night, happens about twice a week.'

'He doesn't like it here then?' asked Harry coldly.

'Of course not!' she snapped back at Harry, 'in case you haven't noticed, _sir_ , it's a shithole.'

Harry nodded, unable to think of a compelling counterpoint. 'Do you have any idea where he might've run off to?'

'The woods,' she said instantly, 'they all run off to the bloody woods. Four miles west, you can take the motorway, if you insist on talking to the boy.'

'Righto,' said Harry, throwing a handful of Peruvian instant darkness powder into the room. Suddenly engulfed in darkness, Harry grabbed a hold of Neville's arm and closed his eyes, imagining a wooded area four miles west, and before he knew it he once again felt as if he was being squeezed through a small, rubber tube.

' _Homenum Revelio_.' chanted Harry upon landing, firm footed, atop the soft woodland soil.

'Thanks for the warning,' Neville grunted from somewhere on the ground.

Harry's spell had no visible signs of success, but inside he felt a sudden urge to travel north-by-north-west.

'This way,' he ordered, hurrying along at a jog with Neville close on his heels.

He ignored the stitch in his side that quickly developed, forcing himself to focus on the premature wizard that was roaming a forest alone. Casper would soon be a student of Harry's, and as such he became Harry's responsibility.

The third time Harry walked painfully through a nest of stinging nettles; he began blasting bushes out of his way, much to Neville's protest. They traversed through the wild foliage, ducking beneath low hanging thorn-coated branches and stepping over fallen trees. Eventually they reached a clearing, where a ring of trampled grass and shrubbery surrounded a solitary tree, atop which was a crudely built tree-house that looked as if it had been there for at least a decade.

'He's in there,' said Harry, sheathing his wand and approaching a rope ladder that hung from the tree.

'Casper Shaw?' called Harry as he reached the top, patience wearing thin as Neville struggled to keep his footing, causing the ladder to shake vigorously.

Harry could hear sounds of scuffling, and he sincerely hoped that the young boy was not about to fling himself from the top of the tree-house to escape him.

He was in luck; a small boy had pushed himself into the furthest corner from Harry, and was watching him with searching, coal-black eyes. Harry was aghast to see that the boy's clothes were torn to shreds, revealing welted skin beneath, and a zigzag of assorted scratches across his arms.

'Merlin's beard...' exclaimed Neville, staring at the boy in horror.

'Casper Shaw?' Harry repeated, shaking off his heavy cloak. The boy nodded, and snatched the offered cloak from Harry's hands, wrapping it tightly around himself. 'Were you attacked? Those scratches on the trunk of the tree looked like a wild animals.'

'Am I in trouble?' the boy countered, his voice quivering.

'Of course not! said Neville suddenly, his eyes filled with pity. 'Casper, we're here to take you somewhere safe.'

The boys eyes narrowed, and he inched further away from the two wizards.

Harry sighed.

'You're a wizard, Casper.' he said, much to Neville's horror.

'Harry!' Neville scolded.

'What? That's how I was told, and I turned out fine.'

'No you didn't!' retorted Neville. Casper's eyes had begun to flick between the two bickering wizards. 'You were burned, bitten and tortured...'

'Merlin's beard Harry,' finished Neville dramatically, 'you even died!'

'You died?' interrupted Casper, staring at Harry in awe.

'It was barely two minutes.' scoffed Harry, unhappy at the turn in conversation.

'Casper, we are Professors at a school called Hogwarts. We can teach you to harness and control the magic inside of you,' said Neville, asserting control of the conversation. 'You've felt it, haven't you Casper?'

Casper had watched Neville sceptically, but by the end of his question his eyes had taken on a glossy sheen, as he recalled past events where he had caused impossible things to happen, just as Harry had when he was eleven years old.

'Here,' said Harry, revealing his wand, 'I can show you.'

He took two steps towards Casper, who hunched defensively, and said a quick series of healing spells, waving his wand. The cuts and scratches across Casper's body sealed themselves, and the blood was siphoned away. Casper stared wide-eyed at his arms, rubbing the patches of healed skin where his injuries had just been.

'You're wizards... real wizards...' he said at last, looking up with tear-filled eyes.

'And you can be too, if that's what you want.' replied Neville.

'I can stay with you? I can leave the orphanage, forever?'

Harry bowed his head, knowing exactly how Neville would respond, and feeling a refreshed pity for the boy.

'You can stay with us for the school year, correct.' said Neville, 'but during the summer you will have to return to your formal carers.'

'Deal.' said Casper, astonished at his sudden stroke of luck.

'You'll need books, and a wand,' Neville recited formally, 'I can explain the situation to your carer, who will have to escort you to the wizarding village of Dia-'

'Mad Maddie? You want to tell her about magic?' said Casper, suddenly horrified. 'You can't... she'll think I'm a freak - she already does!'

'Casper, please -' began Neville, but Casper was clawing at his arms anxiously, spewing various names and insults _'Mad Maddie'_ had for the boys in her asylum.

'I can take him. We can go right now.' decided Harry, 'you carry on, Neville. Finish the list, and report back to me tonight. I'll take Casper to Diagon Alley to get his school things.'

Neville looked as if he might argue, but he swallowed his protest, and stuffed his hand into a pocket, revealing a Gringotts vault key.

'It's a key to the Hogwarts vault; McGonagall had them cut for us.' he said, tucking the key into Harry's pocket, 'I'll message ahead to Hannah, maybe she can clear out the Leaky Cauldron for you.'

'Thanks Neville,' said Harry gratefully, suddenly aware that he hadn't been seen in public for over six months, let alone during the end of the Summer period when dozens of parents will be preparing for the start of a new school year.

Neville turned, disappearing into a tangle of spinning cloak. From behind Harry a small gasp escaped from Casper's mouth.

'Can I learn to do _that_?' he asked, excited.

'Yeah,' lied Harry smoothly, 'Close your eyes, and think of somewhere so completely and wonderfully different from the world you know that you never want to turn back, not even if they throw you into a dragon pit, or a giant lake, or a maze full of highly dangerous and illegal creatures.'

'Okay,' said Casper, eyes squeezed shut, 'I'm doing it.'

Harry clenched a fist around the scruff of Casper's robes, and thought of the first time Hagrid had guided him through the eccentric and fascinating village of Diagon Alley.


	8. The Boys Who Lived

**The Boys Who Lived**

Casper felt as if his insides were being turned into scrambled egg. The revelation of his magical power, as well as the sudden teleportation, could well have caused him to throw up everything inside his stomach - but luckily he hadn't eaten for over a day.

They appeared inside the strangest building he had ever seen, one that was - to his guardians annoyance - filled with patrons, who sipped steaming beverages of brightly coloured liquids. _Cocktails_ , thought Casper, _like Mad Maddie sometimes makes_.

'Harry!' called a middle-aged woman from behind the bar, she had a kind face that was shrouded in thick smoke from the pipe she smoked, 'I just got Neville's message, it's wonderful to see you!'

The bar erupted in activity, and Harry, Casper's guardian, was quickly surrounded by what Casper assumed must be his fellow wizards and witches. It was almost as if he was famous.

'Bloody great to see you!' shouted one, eyes wide.

'You can bet the Auror department misses you, Harry!' said another knowingly, giving him a wink.

Harry had turned a delicate shade of red, and he shook many hands as the men and woman crowded around to welcome him, almost as if he had been missing for a long time.

'So, is it true?' said the wide eyed witch, 'has the chosen one become the Headmaster of Hogwarts?'

Harry stammered an unintelligible reply as the room launched into a fresh wave of cheers and gossip.

'Who better to teach the future of our kind?' called a man who had climbed atop a wobbly table, 'than Harry Potter, vanquisher of the Dark Lord!'

There was a cheer, and Harry looked positively horror struck. He sought Casper through the throng of bodies, and beckoned him towards the bar. Harry shoved his way through the crowd, making apologies and excuses, all the while ignoring the various compliments and cheers that followed him.

They eventually escaped through the bar, and out into a small, walled courtyard. They were completely alone, excepting a dustbin and a variety of overgrown garden weeds.

'Are you famous?' Casper asked, as Harry gulped in several deep breaths.

He nodded impatiently, and Casper fell silent, although his head had filled with a hundred questions. He could've sworn someone in the bars' hair colour had changed colour at least twelve times, and one of the ladies had an owl sat atop her shoulder.

Harry sucked in several more breaths, and Casper verged on asking whether he was having a panic attack, like his old room-mate Owen used to have, much to Mad Maddie's irritation. Before he could, however, Harry had swept his wand, producing a heavy cloak like the one Casper wore, except Harry's had a large, black hood.

'Much better.' he said, throwing the hood over his head.

'Did you kill a dark lord?' blurted out Casper, the curiosity gaining control of his tongue.

'No,' denied Harry hastily, 'I killed _the_ Dark Lord - and don't look at me like that, he killed me first.'

Harry stepped past Casper, who found himself speechless, and tapped his wand three times on a specific brick in the wall, which proceeded to wriggle unlike any brick Casper had previously seen.

He watched, open mouthed, as a hole appeared, small at first but growing wider and wider. Before he knew it, the wall had changed into a large archway that led onto a twisting cobbled street.

'Welcome to Diagon Alley,' said Harry with false merriment, 'Try not to touch anything that looks like it might eat you.'

The archway shrunk behind them, but Casper barely noticed. He stared in amazement at a world so completely and wonderfully different to his own, that he was suddenly sad that it had taken him eleven years to discover it.

'What happened to your parents?' asked Harry, out of the blue, as Casper ran his finger along the rim of a gigantic copper cauldron. 'We need one of those, size two.' he added.

'Car crash,' said Casper, almost too quickly. It was a lie he had practised since he was old enough to lie.

'Doubt it,' said Harry, seeing through him with ease. They had entered a shop that exclusively sold cauldrons; cauldrons of every shape, size and material, cauldrons Casper could climb inside and bathe in.

'Fine, they were murdered,' admitted Casper coldly. It was half the truth, but it was enough to convince Harry, who promptly purchased a size two cauldron, and vanished it into thin air.

'It'll be waiting for you at Hogwarts,' explained Harry, bidding a farewell to the warty salesman.

'How old were you when it happened?' asked Harry, almost casually, but he was watching Casper oddly.

'About nine,' Casper shrugged, distracted by about a hundred things more interesting than the conversation; such as a shop which sold bat spleens by the barrel. 'I don't remember it; they kept me in hospital for two months.'

'Funny pair we make,' said Harry to himself, 'The boys who lived.'

Casper caught himself scratching his arms where his skin had been magically healed, imagining the itchy, red welts that had lined his skin this morning. The same cuts that he had awakened with the night his parents were murdered...

'Here we are,' said Harry, stopping outside a building the colour of solid ice.

Engraved above the burnished bronze doors was the name _'Gringotts Wizarding Bank'_. The building towered above all others in the odd, little street. Wizards and witches sauntered in and out of the building at their leisure, nodding their greetings to a squat, swarthy creature that stood guard beside the doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold.

'Goblins,' muttered Harry, as they climbed the stone steps. Something in his tone betrayed a warning to Casper, and he kept his eyes ahead as the Goblin looked him up and down.

They entered a large, marble atrium. Hundreds of Goblins lined the walls, sat atop high stools behind a long, winding counter. Behind them were doors, of all shapes and sizes, that Goblins and wizards alike crept in and out of. Harry led Casper to the nearest unoccupied Goblin, and placed the key that his partner had given him on top of the counter.

'Good morning, I've got an orphaned Muggle-born wizard with a severely traumatising past, and he's going to need some of the Hogwarts gold to get him safely through his first year at Hogwarts.'

'No,' replied the Goblin, without looking up.

'What do you mean no?' growled Harry, aghast. 'His parents were murdered.'

'I mean precisely what I said - no.' the Goblin retorted, pausing his business to fix Harry with an evil stare.

'Don't tell me you're still upset about the dragon.' said Harry hotly, placing his hands on the counter and leaning forward.

'It was a _valuable_ specimen -'

'Dragon?' piped Casper, unwilling to be left out of a suddenly interesting conversation, 'what dragon?'

'The Ukrainian Ironbelly that Mister Potter _stole_ -'

'You stole a dragon?' Casper shouted, drawing looks from those closest to them.

'Borrowed, actually,' said Harry, pulling his hood tightly about his face, 'and it was only for an hour.'

'The dragon was never seen again.' said the Goblin, a threatening gleam in his eye.

'Well I was having a bit of a stressful day.' spat Harry, who was now nose-to-nose with the Goblin.

Nobody spoke for at least a minute, and Casper was certain they would be promptly kicked out of the building. Several more tense seconds passed, before the Goblin's pointed nose twitched, and he reclined back in his stool. Harry relaxed his shoulders, and the Goblin placed a single finger atop the vault key.

'Your friend Hermione Granger has done wonderful work within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and for that reason alone I will grant you access to your vault, Headmaster Potter.' said the Goblin slowly, although Casper could tell it pained him to do so.

If Casper had still been sceptical regarding the sudden turn of events, the next twenty minutes of his life would have cemented the fact that he had entered a world filled with wizards, dragons, Goblins and Dark Lords.

A small, unsafe looking cart took them on a journey through the twisting belly of Gringotts, past ancient looking vaults, cascading waterfalls and a massive underground lake. They eventually stopped at what Casper assumed must be the deepest, and darkest of the vaults.

The Goblin pulled back a giant, circular, bronze hatch, which billowed dark, green smoke into the trio's faces. Upon waving the smoke away, Casper gasped at the sight of a genuine treasure trove, holding vast amounts of gold and silver coins, as well as precious objects, and ancient looking weaponry.

Harry scooped a modest amount of coins from the vault, tipping them into a sack, and handed them to Casper.

'This is a year's allowance, probably. Spend it wisely.'

First, Casper bought his wand. It was perhaps the strangest purchase of his life, as he spent a good amount of time waving wooden sticks around until the man that ran the shop - a tall, dark man named Dean who was on very friendly terms with the Headmaster - placed a yew-wood wand into his hand, which grew warm at the merest touch. As directed, Casper wafted the wand around the room, feeling a little silly, but gasped in surprise when the candles along the walls suddenly turned a shocking shade of green.

He purchased a set of glass phials, a brass scale, and a state-of-the-art telescope. He was forced to wait patiently while Harry examined a series of broomsticks, alongside a group of teenagers, and was then whisked quickly past a bizarre jokes and sweets shop by an anxious Harry, who seemed to want nothing to do with _'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes'._

Casper could've spent hours in Flourish and Blotts, the booksellers in the north side of Diagon Alley. He found particular joy in hunting down each of the books on his list, as well as a few extras that the Headmaster recommended, such as _Hogwarts: A History_. He also bought a small book of tricks, such as incantations for shuffling cards and extending handkerchiefs, which he couldn't wait to try out.

Eventually he found himself in a tangle of enchanted measuring tapes bewitched by an elderly seamstress. She had cast away the overlarge robe that Casper had taken from Harry in the tree-house, and outfitted Casper in a completely new wardrobe, including corduroy jeans, which she insisted all the children were wearing.

As she began to pin his Hogwarts robes to the right length, another boy entered the store with his father, who was attempting to look as important as possible.

'Is that Harry Potter?' said the man curiously, spotting Harry lingering at the back of the store. 'I'd recognize that scar anywhere.'

Casper knew what he was referring to; a lightening-shaped scar that zigzagged across the Headmaster's forehead, one he hadn't summoned the courage to ask about yet.

'Hullo,' said Harry noncommittally, shaking the man's hand with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.

'I'm Doctor Stebbins, of St. Mungo's,' said the man, puffing out his chest, 'I often have the pleasure of treating the Auror division's injuries... as well as their... erm... victims.'

'I know you!' said the boy suddenly, drawing the attention of all of those in attendance, 'we sat together at the Hollyhead Harpies game! Except your beard was bigger, and you smell better now.'

'Nicklin!' exclaimed the Doctor in horror, 'This is Harry Potter, your Headmaster at Hogwarts, and you will show him the appropriate respect!'

Harry watched the exchange uninterestedly, but smiled politely at the Doctor's hurried apology. Nicklin wandered off in a sulky silence, shooting Casper a scathing look which he hardly felt he deserved. The two men exchanged small talk as the seamstress finished her measuring, and presented Casper with a bundle of clothing.

'Freshly healed cuts,' remarked Doctor Stebbins as Casper approached the two men. 'Barely two hours old, it would seem.'

Casper began scratching the smooth skin, but Harry casually put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at the frowning Doctor.

'Boys will be boys,' he said calmly, and bid the man a good day, marching Casper from the shop.

'Smug git,' said Harry, and Casper raised his eyebrows. He was finding it hard to see Harry as the famously important Headmaster that most others regarded him as. He was perhaps the most unprofessional and oddly amusing man he had ever met.

'The boy didn't like me,' said Casper, his good mood lessening.

'Well you have my express permission to not like him back,' said Harry, leading Casper down a quiet alley.

Harry checked an ancient looking watch, nodded to himself and placed his hand on Casper's shoulder once more. Casper anticipated what was about to happen, and clutched the bundle of clothes tightly to his chest. In an instant they were being squeezed through the air like highly mobile pasta.

'Do I have to go back?' asked Casper, eyeing the orphanage with distaste.

Harry grimaced, knowing the boys pain. Staying with the Dursley's as a child during the holidays gave Harry some of his least favourite memories, and no doubt Casper would be itching to return to the wizarding world after getting his first taste of it in Diagon Alley.

'Yes,' said Harry firmly, 'but only for six days, I'll arrange a Ministry car to collect you and take you to Kings Cross. Your train ticket will be in the post; look for the barn owl.'

'Wait!' called Casper, as Harry prepared himself to apparate. 'Harry, I -'

'Professor Potter from now on,' said Harry, smiling as the words awkwardly fell from his mouth, 'Hogwarts is big on formality.'

'Professor Potter, I just want to say thank you... for everything.' he said sincerely, almost causing Harry to feel a modicum of human emotion, 'even if I wake up tomorrow and it's all a dream, this was really amazing.'

'You're welcome,' replied Harry, looking down fondly at the boy, with his arms and bags full of Diagon Alley's finest. 'I know the feeling, Casper.'

'GET OUT!' roared Harry, for what seemed like the hundredth time that afternoon.

The man, rather large and balding, scurried from room as Harry's anger caused several books to throw themselves at him on his way out.

It was the fourth, or perhaps fifth time, that an interviewee had begun their conversation by asking for Harry's autograph, or his recollections of what happened in Diagon Alley, or what particular spell he had used to vanquish the Dark Lord.

Harry's patience was wearing thin, and he was seriously considering cancelling the last interview and just teaching the subject himself; he was rather good at summoning charms after all.

Suppressing his fury, he sent his Patronus - an elegant stag - out of the office, to summon the final candidate.

It was the first female of the bunch, and perhaps the youngest. She strode into the office purposefully, her expression stern and regal. Harry offered her a chair with a wave of his hand, which she took quickly, nodding her thanks.

'Right. Hello. Name?' said Harry, attempting to get this whole ceremony out of the way as quickly as possible.

'Norma Harp, sir, you will me suitably qualified for the post, as well as any extra-curriculum activates you need supervised. I am also a decent flyer, a dab-hand at healing spells and the current Magical Chess champion of the South-East.'

'Right, and do you want my autograph?' asked Harry, his voice sounding as tired as he felt.

'What? No - I mean...'

'Brilliant. You're hired.' he said happily, holding out his hand.

'I am?' she said, shocked. Harry's hand hung in the air, untouched.

'Yes, you passed the test.'

'That was no test, Mister Potter -'

'Good point,' he said, retracting his offered hand, 'um... levitate me.

'You? Right now?' Norma's tone was becoming increasingly alarmed, which Harry was secretly delighting in.

'Yes, right now.'

'You're sure?'

'I hope so.'

' _Wingardium Leviosa_ ,' she said calmly, her wand performing a perfect swish and flick motion. Harry felt himself hover two feet in the air.

'Good wand work.' complimented Harry, as his body settled back into his chair.

'Thank you, sir,'

'It's Harry,' he corrected, smiling.

'Thank you, Harry, I won't let you down.' said Norma with earnest, tucking her wand into a sheath in her belt.

'Good, that's just what I needed to hear,' said Harry, hardly daring to believe his luck, 'Neville's waiting in the staff room, on the ground floor. He can show you to your new quarters.'

'Thank you, Harry,' she said, but when Harry stood, she remained firmly implanted into the chair, 'I also heard that you had an opening for the Head of Slytherin House.'

'You heard correct,' said Harry slowly, knowing which route this conversation was about to take.

'I was in Slytherin house, sir.'

'I appreciate the offer, but you're far too young.' said Harry simply, hoping that would curtail the conversation. It did not.

'Me? Too young? You are the youngest Headmaster in recorded history!' she exclaimed, a hint of anger entering her voice.

'Funny thing that; I still feel ancient.' he replied whimsically. 'But no, age isn't the only factor. It's too much work for your first year; you'll thank me when term starts.'

'So Slytherin will go without a head of house?' she asked incredulously.

'Oh no, they'll have a great head of house.' said Harry, smiling, 'They just won't be a Slytherin.'

About an hour later, Harry waited patiently behind his desk, almost looking as if he belonged, when Artemis Knowles walked nervously into the room, nodding a greeting, his polished pistol bouncing against his hip.

'Hello Harry, you wanted to see me?' he said, frowning.

'Take a seat please, Artemis, I've got some news.'

Professor Knowles did as he was ordered, taking the seat previously occupied by Norma Harp, whom Neville had informed Harry was moderately pleased with her new quarters, and had last been seen having an intense discussion with McGonagall regarding wand safety.

'Good news or bad news?' asked Artemis, forcing a smile.

'Well, that would entirely rely on your feelings towards being Head of Slytherin House.'

The office was so delicately silent you could've hard a pin drop, or a fly land on a silk pillow, or Artemis Knowles on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

'Pardon?' he tried, not meeting Harry's eye.

'Head of Slytherin.' said Harry solidly.

'But...' he began, wringing his hands, 'Harry, I'm a squib.'

'Pardon?' said Harry.

'A squib.'

'Yes, and? I'm not following.'

'They'll eat me alive Harry!' he exclaimed, running a nervous hand through his thick hair.

'I doubt it, but if it happens then I will make sure the perpetrators are given a month's detention.' said Harry sternly, hoping it may calm the man's nerves.

'Oh my, this is really happening isn't it?'

'Come on, Arty. You were my first choice,' lied Harry, 'well, that's not true. I asked Professor McGonagall but she threatened to turn my intestines into liquorish.'

Artemis had gone a sickly, pale colour, but after a minute or so, he looked up at Harry solemnly, and nodded.

'Brilliant!' said Harry happily, and he couldn't help but feel he was starting to get to grips with once again being a man of immense responsibility. _Just need to write back to Lily, and I'll be ahead of schedule_ , thought happily.

'The money better be good,' said Artemis at last, 'I'll need to be able to afford bigger guns if I'm looking after Slytherin's.'

Harry hoped he was joking.

Casper was quite alone; he had made sure of that. He wore an old pyjama top, as well as an older boy's borrowed pair of jeans. He sat atop his bed, listening intently as Maddie ordered the last of the boys to sleep. He chanced a look out of his bedroom window, which had once again been crudely nailed shut.

A mass of clouds obscured the night sky, giving the world beneath his window no natural light. Instead, the streets were occasionally lit by a passing car, or the gang of teens that would walk by, flashing their phone at the pavement to guide their way.

Casper checked his watch; it was time.

He placed his wands against the window, and closed his eyes, thinking of the world outside in vivid detail. The hooting of the forest owls, and the buzzing swarm of bees returning to their hives. Sounds and sights that he loved, and that lay outside of the prison he lived in.

With a collection of pops, the nails sprung from their placed in the window, bouncing from the walls. Casper smiled, knowing now that what he had just done was true magic, not some gravitational fluke.

He was outdoors, running into the night. A sheen of sweat quickly covered his forehead as he continued to sprint, desperate to return to his safe place.

His bare feet soon found the forest floor, and his toes and ankles were coated in mud and grime. Thorns and nettled ripped at his already battered clothes, tearing fresh holes. The darkness had fallen about him, but a tiny break in the clouds allowed a slither of moonlight to guide his way.

Soon he was travelling on instinct alone, letting his gut and his nose guide him, until finally he came across the trampled clearing, and the tree-house that had become his one and only safe place.

More light found its way through the clouds as he climbed the rope ladder, rung by rung. He felt himself gaining strength, and the struggle of climbing becoming near effortless.

Inside the treetop cabin, he tore off his shirt, casting it to the ground. As he did so, the clouds hanging above him finally passed, revealing a perfectly round, full moon.

The change was instantaneous. Thick, brown fur burst from his arms, and the backs of his hands. He felt his spine alter and curve, and with an excruciating burst of pain his jaw elongated.

He screamed a boy's scream, knowing nobody would hear him here. The scream, so childlike at first, became more and more feral as his body writhed and contorted, his fingers shrivelling into paws, and his toes growing talon-like claws.

Soon he was not screaming, but howling. Howling at the moon with all the fury he could muster. His human mind had perished, giving way to the canine thoughts and simple emotions of the wolf that lived inside him.

The wolf that had changed his life, and murdered his parents.


	9. Welcome To Hogwarts

**Welcome To Hogwarts**

'Welcome, students old and new, to Hogwarts, I am Harry Potter. My name is Harry Potter. Harry Potter is my name, and I have no idea what I am saying.'

'Strong effort, mate,' replied the mirror that Harry stood before, stark naked.

It had been a rough night, and Harry had drunk his fill of Milkthistle tea, and had deposited several more nightmarish memories into his pensieve. Finally, he had snatched a couple of hours sleep, before a passing hippogryph had squawked loudly outside of the bedrooms window, causing Harry to awake suddenly, his body coated his sweat.

It was already afternoon, and the last rays of the summer sun shone stubbornly into the oval bedroom. Harry had stripped off his pyjamas to cool his gently roasting body, and was unfortunate enough to find a large, ornate mirror propped up along the side of the room.

'Welcome to the start of a new year. A new, good year, where my wife hates me, and whisky is banned from the premises, and there is no more good in the world.' he said sulkily, knowing that McGonagall probably wouldn't approve that speech.

Harry tenderly traced a scar that lined his bare stomach, he couldn't recall exactly where it had happened, but he thought it may have involved a fire breathing goat.

Other scars wound their way across Harry's wiry and worn body. He no longer had the athletic Seeker's body from his earlier days in the Ministry, but through age his body had routinely sagged and hardened. His skin was tough and callous, and while he lacked definition, there was muscle and sinew where there once been bones and hanging skin. His alcohol addiction had given him a small, bulging stomach, as well as, he noticed grimly, a prematurely greying beard and sallow, red-rimmed eyes that sat behind cloudy, round glasses.

He no longer had the body and looks of the chosen one; the boy who lived. Those were monikers of a forgone time, and while Harry had never relished in those titles, he would have given everything he had to return to his blissful youth, stealing kisses from his flame-haired bride beneath the shade of their lovingly-crafted home.

'Forget the speech for now, Harry, we've got boats to inspect,' said Neville as they rushed down the ever-shifting Hogwarts staircase.

'How can I forget it?' asked Harry rhetorically, 'My nieces and nephews will be there, wondering what on earth happened to their famous, clean-shaven Uncle. Even Luna's twins will be there, and you know what they're like.'

'If it bothers you that much, just shave it off,' said Neville irritably, looking away from Harry.

'This isn't about the beard Neville,' snapped Harry, tucking stray hairs behind his ears. 'This is about how everyone we went to school with seems to have had about a million kids.'

'Not everyone,' Neville mumbled bitterly, increasing his speed.

Something in Neville's tone made Harry wonder why his friend had never produced children of his own; he had been married for several years, after all. Harry did not pursue the matter, as Neville practically stomped across the Entrance Hall and into the dungeons.

Upon entering the underground boathouse, they me the large, blundering form of Hagrid. Harry quickly assumed Hagrid had wandered here by mistake in his delirium, but on closer inspection Harry saw he was making last minute repairs to the boats.

'I got yeh covered Harry,' he said, plugging a hole in the deck of one of the boats with large amounts of Spello-tape.

'This is great Hagrid,' said Neville, brightening up, 'this puts us ahead of schedule.'

'Bumped inter that ol' codger Filch on me way down 'ere' said Hagrid from the floor, prying giant molluscs from the boats hull, 'knocked 'im flyin' I did, e's blind as a bat nowadays.'

'But yeh, 'e was lookin' for yeh Harry, wanted a word.'

'Looking for me?' asked Harry, smiling, 'I thought you said he was as blind as a bat.'

'Harry!' rebuked Neville, as Hagrid chortled into his beard, 'It's a serious problem, Harry, and he outright refused to retire when Professor Thursday offered him a severance package. We had to assign one of the kitchen House Elves as his assistant.'

'Poor Elf,' said Harry sadly.

''e 'asn't been the same since that ruddy cat died,' remarked Hagrid, as Neville nodded. 'Righ', tha's the last of 'em.'

With a great effort, he stood up, using his magically reinforced umbrella for support. 'Better go check on Hamish and the whelps,' he said, beaming with pride, 'did yeh know he's moved inter the castle? Soon he'll be after me teachin' job!'

Hagrid patted Harry on the back with a gigantic hand as he left the harbour, causing his organs to momentarily vibrate.

'That may happen sooner rather than later,' said Neville seriously, when Hagrid was out of earshot.

'Don't say that,' said Harry, 'I can't lose Hagrid. Not now.'

'I used to think he was sort of indestructible, back when we were in school.'

'He is,' said Harry, lacking confidence, 'probably.'

Filch wasn't in his office on the ground floor, nor was he in the nearby broom cupboard, or the great hall, which was being prepared for the evening feast. Harry cursed himself for not thinking to bring the Marauder's Map with him to Hogwarts, not that he had any earthly idea what had happened to it, but it would have been a nifty addition to Harry's inventory as Headmaster.

Eventually, Harry bumped into the Caretaker out of sheer luck. He had popped into the Staff Room to procure more ingredients for his new enthusiasm for Milkthistle tea, and had found Argus Filch mopping muddy footprints off of the floor.

'Blasted dwarf … giant boots and a tiny brain … always trampling around the forest … strictly out of bounds …' Filch's spiel may have continued indefinitely, if Alviss, who lounged quietly beside the fire while sucking on a large, carved pipe, caught Harry's eye and winked.

'I've been here fifteen minutes, and he hasn't noticed,' said Alviss loudly, causing Filch to freeze on the spot.

'Professor …' began Filch, bowing low to the ground, but Alviss cut him off with a loud snort.

'Don't start grovelling, Argus,' said the Dwarf, 'you wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in front of our new Headmaster.'

Filch stood up straight at once, casting his milky, useless eyes about the room in search of Harry, who almost waved but stopped himself in the motion.

'Hello Filch,' said Harry civilly, supressing feelings of pity that welled up inside of him. The Argus Filch of Harry's time had been a fairly competent Caretaker, albeit slightly evil. Harry was shocked to see this ancient, husk of man, whose eyesight had failed him completely.

'Headmaster … such a richly deserved promotion,' he said, slithering towards Harry using his cat-like senses, 'I had hoped to approach you about several disturbances in the forbidden forest.'

'Disturbances?' snorted Alviss, smoke billowing from his mouth and nostrils, 'Did you hear these disturbances or smell them, Filch? Or perhaps you're little House Slave –'

'Alviss,' said Harry sharply, holding up a hand; the Dwarf begrudgingly fell silent.

'If you need further proof, Dwarf, then I can offer you the word of my assistant,' snarled Filch, clenching the mop to his chest with white-knuckles.

Before Harry could object, there was a sharp _crack,_ and the sudden sound of shuffling feet from behind Harry.

'Tell them!' ordered Filch angrily, 'Tell them about the forest, Kreacher!'

Harry's heart may well have fell through his chest. He turned, and suddenly his pity had quadrupled.

If Filch had aged badly, then Kreacher the decrepit House Elf had become near ghoul-like in his advanced age. Harry had not seen the Elf since his final days at Hogwarts, when upon bringing Harry a grisly corn beef sandwich, Harry had decided to make Kreacher a free elf, much to Hermione's delight, allowing the aging Elf to live out the last of his days however he pleased.

'Kreacher,' said Harry uncertainly, 'long time no see.'

'Master has returned to take Kreacher away from the filthy squib,' muttered Kreacher, his squinting eyes darting between Harry and Filch.

'Insubordination!' squealed Filch, and in return Kreacher hissed at the old man.

'Kreacher,' said Harry calmly, stepping between the bickering pair, 'Filch was telling me about the Forest. Do you know anything about this?'

'The half-breeds are causing trouble again, if Master must know,' he wheezed in Harry's direction, 'not that the blind squib would know, sending Kreacher to do his dirty work –'

 _Centaurs_ , thought Harry, remembering how the old toad Umbridge had referred to the creatures. The last thing he needed was a centaur uprising on the first day of term. He would send Hagrid a message, and hope he could keep things under control.

'Kreacher,' said Harry sternly, 'you will work alongside Filch in peace, or I will find someone else to tend to the castle. You have the right to refuse his orders, but you will not abuse this power. You have a job to do, just like everybody else.'

Kreacher bowed, accepting Harry's authority, as Headmaster of Hogwarts, or owner of number twelve Grimmauld Place, he did not know, but Kreacher made a much better ally than enemy.

'Now Filch, if you are adamant on living out the rest of your days as Caretaker of this school, you will treat my employee's with all the respect you treat me. Men, women, Elves and Dwarves alike.'

Filch's lip quivered somewhat as he accepted Harry's regime, blinking tears from his ruined eyes. Kreacher hobbled out of the room, with Filch close behind, using the mop to grope and probe his way around the furniture.

It was finally quiet, except for Professor Alviss calmly puffing on his smoking puff. Harry nodded to him politely, and Alviss seemed to look at Harry with a new found respect in his eyes.

'Well handled, Professor,' he said at last, tucking the pipe into a pocket on the chest of his robes.

'Thanks,' said Harry quickly, 'look. I'm not completely sold on this battle axe business –'

'Why not? The kids love it,' he snapped back, placing a protective hand on the axes shaft.

'That's not the point; you don't see me carrying around a harpoon.'

'There's a bloody sword in your office!' Alviss argued with a gleam in his eye.

'That is purely ceremonial,' countered Harry.

'Neville told me he cut a snakes head off with it!'

'Yeah but –' Harry was nearly tired of arguing, 'that was part of the ceremony,' he finished weakly.

'You can't take away my axe Potter,' pleaded Alviss, 'it's a part of me, as much as that scar on your head is a part of you.'

Harry sighed, knowing this was a battle he would not win. He would just have to trust that none of the first years would accidentally levitate the axe into another person's face.

'Fine,' said Harry at last, 'if you promise it's for emergencies only.'

'Cross my heart,' laughed Alviss, placing a stubby hand on his chest.

Casper was not used to the awkward silence that hovered inside of train carriages, especially as he and his ilk had rarely been allowed out of the confines of the orphanage and its surrounding area. This was probably why the children at Wulfric's Home for Lost Boys made such good use of the wooded areas near their home, he had thought to himself as watched the orphanage disappear behind him.

Much to the jealousy of the other children, Casper had been picked up by an impressive, navy-blue car driven by a decisively unimpressive man named Stan Shunpike, whose belches smelt like tobacco and pear cider. The car had the unique distinction of being able to slide through gaps that regular cars would never be able to manage, as well as having a large enough interior for Casper to laze across the length of the backseat, reading _Hogwarts: A History_ and occasionally pinching himself.

Driver Shunpike had led him all the way through Kings Cross, and then after trying to purchase a cup of coffee with a gold Galleon, had shoved Casper's trolley, as well as Casper himself, through a solid wall that stood between platforms nine and ten.

'What's a Muggle?' asked a short, tubby boy with curly hair, who was drawing shapes on the steamy windows with his index finger.

There were four boys within the compartment, only one of which Casper knew; the Doctors boy from Madam Malkin's, who had resentfully taken the spare seat beside Casper upon realising that all the other compartments were full.

The lunch trolley had already passed, pushed along by an elderly matron. The curly haired boy had jumped at the chance to purchase a handful or two of sickly treats, but had been rebuked by the matron upon trying to pay for his sweets using a crisp, five pound note.

'Muggle born are you? Sorry lad, we only take _our_ money,' croaked the elderly trolley-pusher, causing the boys euphoria to fade.

Casper had paid for the treats, pulling a few sickles from the purse around his neck. It was the money Professor Potter had given him after their incursion to Diagon Alley, and Casper had drilled Driver Shunpike for information on the Wizarding currency during their lengthy car ride.

'Thanks!' exclaimed the boy, his soft cheeks wobbling with delight as he sat back down, clutching his feast.

The awkward silence had returned during lunch; Casper had eaten three pumpkin pasties, which were delightful, but left him craving real, savoury food. The tubby boy, who announced himself as Francis, tucked into his lunch, before sharing the remains with Samin, who sat next to him; a quiet, thoughtful boy with a complexion of hot chocolate and a mop of jet black hair that fell to his shoulders.

'As in Muggle-born,' Nicklin answered from beside Casper, it was the first words he had uttered, 'Muggles are non-magical folk, like the ones running Kings Cross.'

Casper hadn't known this, and suddenly he felt slightly ashamed, although he could not fully explain why. His parents must have been Muggles, unless they had decided to renounce their magical ways and raise Casper non-magically, before he had ended up in the orphanage.

'In my country we call them Hafti,' contributed Samin.

'What countries that?' asked Casper, perking up, he had not considered that magic existed outside of England.

'My people call it Persia, but it is mostly known as Iran,' he smiled, happy to be involved in the conversation.

'Well then why are you going to Hogwarts?' asked Nicklin.

'My father is a broom-maker,' he said simply, 'Persia does not have much need for brooms – they rely mostly on carpets to get around. He has taken a job with _Ellerby and Spudmore_ to work on their new design.'

Casper was less interested in broom making, having been forced to sweep the orphanage on more than one occasion, and had still not forgotten the splinters. He was determined to steer the conversation in another direction.

'So does anyone know which House they want to be in?' he asked innocently, having read up on the four houses of Hogwarts during his recent night time reading.

'Gryffindor,' said Nicklin instantly, 'it was my dad's house. My mum was a Hufflepuff, but I'm way more like my dad.'

Casper smarmed slightly at that, as he also had been hoping to be placed in Gryffindor. According to his edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ , it had been Harry Potter's House, as well as the house of his wife's entire family, the Weasley's.

'I did not know there were houses…' said Samin slowly, his brows creasing.

'What houses? I thought it was a castle.' Francis was just about intelligible through a mouthful of fudge.

'Well there's Gryffindor, and um... Raven's call… I think,' started Casper, struggling to recall everything he had read last night.

'Ravenclaw,' corrected Nicklin, 'You have to be super smart to get into Ravenclaw. My dad always said he was surprised he wasn't a Ravenclaw, after all he's one of the best surgeons in St. Mungo's.'

'St. Mungo's?' questioned Francis.

'It's the only magical hospital in Briton,' said Nicklin irritably, as if this was common knowledge to Muggle-borns. 'Then there's Hufflepuff, everyone used to say they were a bunch of softies, but their Quidditch team is supposed to be amazing – them and Gryffindor pretty much trade the cup back and forth, nobody else has a chance.'

The word Quidditch had popped up in several of Casper's books, but he couldn't correctly summarise what this word meant. He nodded along, however, hoping to look more knowledgeable than he felt to the Muggle-born Francis, and the Persian wizard Samin.

'Gryffindor was said to be the bravest of the bunch, there are _loads_ of famous people from Gryffindor, like Sir Cadogan, and Dumbledore, and Sirius Black –'

'And Harry Potter,' said Casper confidently.

Nicklin wriggled his nose at Casper's contribution, but nodded none-the-less. 'Well, yeah, him too,' he said, 'and then there's Slytherin,'

Casper's insides clenched; he had read his fill on Slytherin, a House which _Hogwarts: A History_ had been particularly critical of. Slytherin had been founded by the fanatical Salazar Slytherin, who was said to be able to control snakes with his mind, and was a practitioner of dark magic.

'They say Slytherin always has the most powerful wizards,' said Nicklin, smiling wickedly, 'but they almost always go bad,'

'Bad?' asked Francis, licking his fingers.

'Yeah, bad,' confirmed Nicklin, 'all of the wizarding wars involved dark wizards trying to take over,'

'There are _wizarding wars_?' Francis queried, suddenly in awe.

'Of course there are, and Slytherins are _always_ on the bad side,' said Nicklin, confirming what Casper already knew.

The boys fell into conversation, discussing the houses and their various qualities, as well as famous witches and wizards they had produced. Casper was barely listening; instead he was encompassed in his own thoughts.

The idea that Hogwarts had a place specifically for dark wizards was tormenting Casper. He had spent the last two years of his life living in exclusion, harbouring the wolf inside of him, a dark beast that had gone unexplained for too long.

But then Harry Potter had come, and he had explained to him the magic that ran through his veins, that connected him to a world that he never knew existed, a world unlike any he had ever dreamed of. In this world was a school that accepted anybody, and any being, that wanted to learn to control their magic. Casper had read that Hogwarts and its surrounding grounds had been home to wizards, witches, centaurs, mermaids, elves, ghosts, unicorns and half-giants.

He had hoped, although perhaps in vain, that a werewolf such as himself would be equally accepted at Hogwarts, but the discussion regarding Slytherin and its dark habits had gone a long way to convince him otherwise.

He refused to be a dark wizard, no matter what curse resided inside of him. The famous Harry Potter had brought him into this world, and granted him hospitality at Hogwarts, and Casper would not dishonour that gift by giving into the dark arts.

'…she plays for the Hollyhead Harpies reserve team, but she reckons she'll be playing with the main team within the year,' boasted Nicklin, drawing Casper's attention back to the group discussion.

'I hear that first years are unable to play for their house teams, is this true?' asked Samin.

'Play what?' asked Casper innocently, not wanting to be left out.

'Quidditch, of course,' replied Nicklin.

Casper gulped, while not willing to betray that he knew next to nothing of the wizarding world outside of his books, he was unable to fight his curiosity.

'What's Quidditch?' he asked at last.

Samin and Nicklin exchanged a look… a look so amazed that even Francis looked up from his treats, although that may have been because he had taken a lick of a blood-flavoured lollipop.

'Quidditch is…' began Samin, searching for the word.

'It's like this…' said Nicklin, squinting his eyes. He looked at Samin, and the boys both sighed, staring at Casper in disbelief.

'Okay we'll explain, but it may take a few hours.'

Clad in their Hogwarts robes, the boys disembarked the Hogwarts express, leaving their luggage on the train as ordered by several prefects, as this would be magicked into their respective dormitories after the sorting. Francis had begged the prefect to tell him what the sorting involved, but he refused say, telling him that anyone who told a first year how they were sorted would have their lips magically glued together.

'I remember my dad saying it involved a hat,' said Nicklin coyly, as if he knew how stupid he sounded.

'Yeah, sure,' Casper replied sarcastically, knowing that entrance into a magical castle would not involve something as trivial as wearing a hat.

The boys marched in formation with the rest of the students, until a lamp hovered towards them from the distance, held aloft by a young, lanky man holding a pink umbrella.

'First years?' he called out into the mass of moving students, 'First years this way! All first years come with me!'

Casper and Samin exchanged a look, and then followed Francis towards the voice, with Nicklin trailing behind, looking sceptically at the lad holding the lantern.

'That all of you, is it?' he asked the group, who looked around uncertainly. 'Good, let's get a move on,'

He led the group down a steep, winding path that quickly plunged them into darkness. Eventually they merely followed the dull glow of their leader's lamp, occasionally crying out as someone slipped over into the mud – something that happened to Francis twice.

'Say hello to Hogwarts,' the lad said happily as the path opened suddenly onto the edge of a great, black lake.

Across the lake, atop a high mountain, with windows glittering against the night sky and turrets stretching up into the heavens was Hogwarts castle.

'Right fellows, my names Hamish, and I'll need you to group up into fours and climb into the boats,' their leader called out over the goggling first years. He waved his hand towards a fleet of small, rickety boats that floated atop the lake.

Casper climbed confidently into the closest boat, having experience with the wobbling rope ladder that led to his tree house. Samin followed, with Nicklin and Francis close behind. With a command from Hamish, the boats surged forward, gliding effortlessly across the lake. Hogwarts towered over them as they sailed closer to the rigid cliff edge that it perched on.

'Watch your heads now!' shouted Hamish as they neared the end of their short voyage. The boats carried them through an overhanging curtain of ivy that camouflaged a wide opening in the cliff edge. They passed beneath a winding tunnel, which burrowed beneath the castle itself, until they reached an underground harbour.

'Up you go, kids,' said Hamish as they climbed out of the boats, watching their footing on the sliding stone of the harbour. He gestured to a flight of stone steps that led to a huge, oak door, which swung open to admit then into a large entrance hall.

'Welcome to Hogwarts,' said a brown-haired man with a handlebar moustache, he grinned wildly down at the first years.


	10. An Argument Of Sorts

**An Argument of Sorts**

'My name is Professor Longbottom, and I am your Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts. The feast will begin shortly, but before that happens we must sort you into your school houses!'

He paused for dramatic effect, and Nicklin raised an eyebrow at Casper, signalling his dislike for the teacher.

'Yes, well, um... Your house will become your home during your time at Hogwarts. The four houses are called Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin, and each house has its own unique history, and has produced equal amounts of wonderful witches and wizards. You will sleep in your house dormitory, and spend time beside the fire of your house common room. Good behaviour will earn you points for your house, while poor behaviour and rule breaking will lose house points, so make sure you are on your best behaviour!'

He smiled, scanning the group, and Casper thought he looked slightly maniacal in the dim candlelight.

'Now form a line,' he said at last, his hand resting on the door to the great hall, 'and follow me.'

Casper gasped in surprise as the doors flew open, revealing a gigantic hall, big enough for twelve of Casper's tree houses. It was lit by thousands of floating candles that hung above four, long tables where the rest of the students sat, staring at the first years as they marched towards a fifth table at the end of the hall, along which sat the Hogwarts professors.

'The sky!' exclaimed a pig-tailed girl in a hushed tone.

Casper looked up at the ceiling, if you could even call it that. Clouds swirled above them, and Casper recalled reading that the ceiling was bewitched to imitate the sky outside.

The first years were arranged along the edge of the Professors table, facing the rest of the students, who watched them smiling, perhaps recalling their own memories as a first year. Professor Longbottom strode before them, carrying an old wooden stool in one hand, and an even older wizard's hat in the other. He placed the hat atop the stool, directly in front of Casper and his friends, and for a small moment Casper could've sworn he saw the hat twitch on its own.

Then, without warning, a rip near the brim of the hat opened to form a wide mouth-like shape… and the hat began to sing.

'Beneath your hair, your scalp, your skull,

I can see it all,

Your thoughts, your heart, your very soul,

There's nowhere I can't go.

Just set me down, upon your head,

I'll read your mind with ease,

And put you on your path ahead,

Where you'll walk with who I please.

Bravery you may hold dear,

And strength of heart you'll know,

And if I find no quarrel there,

With Gryffindor you'll go.

If you live for loyalty,

And reason is your grace,

I will dare not disagree,

In Hufflepuff you'll be placed.

Your wisdom has no boundaries,

And you wish to make this known,

I'm quite sure we'll both agree,

That Ravenclaw's your home.

Or do you value power?

Your ambition truly shines,

Then I've no doubt within the hour,

With Slytherin you'll dine.

But don't be bound by your House's traits,

And don't think that you'll be caught,

In your own way, you can be great,

And your own destinies can be wrought.'

The entire hall; students, professors and ghosts alike, burst into a righteous applause as the hat finished its song. To Casper's continued amazement, the hat then bowed to each table in turn, and then spun to face the first years.

'When I call your name, you will put the hat on your head and sit on the stool,' called Professor Longbottom, 'Ashworth, Chucky!'

A pink-faced boy with curly, blonde hair and trembling hands stumbled towards the stool from somewhere on Casper's left. He placed the hat on his head, letting it fall over his face, and sat down.

'HUFFLEPUFF!' shouted the hat.

The table on the far right burst into applause as Chucky stomped towards the Hufflepuff table. Casper watched as the boy was welcomed warmly, with many of his surrounding students patting him on the back or shaking his hand.

'SLYTHERIN!' shouted the hat, as a dark-haired girl tore the hat from her head, smiling.

Casper was doing the maths in his head, figuring he must be close to the end of the list to be sorted, along with Nicklin Stebbins, who stood confidently on his right side. 'Bones-Austin, Olive' was also sorted into Hufflepuff, much to their delight, while 'Chaff, Madison' became the first Gryffindor. The table on the far left erupted into ear-splitting whistles and chants, stomping their feet and pulling Madison into a group hug.

More and more students were sorted into their respective houses, with each house gaining an approximately even amount of students. The Gryffindor table became increasingly raucous, and when 'Georgina Finnigan' was sorted into their house, the noise became so loud that an elderly looking witch in a tartan robe and a tight bun of hair had to call out to regain order.

Casper couldn't help but watch the wizened old lady as she sat back down at the Professors table, where she shot Professor Longbottom, who was helping a clumsy girl onto the stool, a scathing look.

'Goyle, Marvolo,' was summoned to the stool next, causing the witch to frown, and cast the overgrown first year a look of disapproval. Harry Potter – his face hidden beneath a heavy hood - also looked up from inspecting his spoon, an inquisitive look on his face.

'SLYTHERIN!' called the hat at once, and the boy strutted towards his new house.

'Mahdavi, Samin!' Professor Longbottom shouted several minutes later, calling forth the first of Casper's train companions.

Samin swept the hair from his eyes, and placed the hat firmly atop his head. A minute passed, and then another, before the hat opened its stringy mouth.

'GRYFFINDOR!' it called, and Casper felt a surge of pride for his friend, mingled with a desperation that he too would be sorted into the house.

He watched Samin jealously, as a flock of students ushered him to his new seat, and then ruffled his mop of hair affectionately.

'O'Boyle, Francis!'

The second of Casper's companions, Francis, rushed towards the stool in excitement, shoving the hat on his head, much to the amusement of his fellow students.

'GRYFFINDOR!' said the hat again, and Casper's stomach tightened. Beside him, Nicklin groaned, as if sceptical that Francis deserved a place in the renowned house.

Casper began to listen attentively to the names called, as 'Pace, Dominic' was sorted into Ravenclaw, and 'Quann, Susan' was placed at the Hufflepuff table. It wouldn't be long until Casper's name was called.

'Selwyn, Quint!' called the hat, and to Casper's surprise, the Slytherin table began clapping in anticipation.

'The Selwyn's are old blood,' explained Nicklin, whispering in Casper's ear.

'SLYTHERIN!' said the hat at once, to nobody on the Slytherin table's surprise.

'Shaw, Casper!' shouted Professor Longbottom, his eyes darting from Casper to Harry, and then back to Casper.

He vaguely felt Nicklin pat him on the back as he stepped forward, nearly losing his footing. There was a snicker from somewhere in the crowd, and Casper's face reddened as he placed his bottom on the stool. The hat felt rough and worn in his hands, and he slid it easily over his head.

His face was engulfed in darkness, and the various sounds and noises of the great hall dimmed, as if muted by a television remote.

'What is this?' said a voice in his ear, a voice that betrayed its age and wisdom, 'Something inside. Something hidden, something secret. You could be powerful, you know. Your kind have a thirst for power - a need to prove themselves, and there's only one house that will help you do that…'

Casper's insides froze, and his worst fears came to life.

'SLYTHERI –'

'No!' shouted Casper, and the world fell silent once again.

'No?' said the sorting hat in surprise, 'Fine, so be it. Don't come complaining to me – GRYFFINDOR!'

Casper tore the hat from his head, dropping it to the stone floor beside him. Professor Longbottom stared at him with wide eyes. A silence surrounded Casper, it was brutal, and may have lasted forever.

Except, a heartbeat later, a boy at the Gryffindor stood up abruptly.

'Up yours, Slytherin!' he shouted, causing the hall to explode

'Silence, Weasley!' called the tartan-clad witch from the Professors table, and the Gryffindor's had the good sense to fall quiet.

Casper felt a hand on the small of his back, pushing him gently towards the Gryffindor table, who awaited him with anticipation. He smiled weakly at Professor Longbottom, who regarded queerly, and hurried to the Gryffindor table, where Samin and Francis had shuffled apart to make room for him.

As soon as his backside touched the seat, the Gryffindor awoke in a fresh bout of applause, and Casper felt a dozen hands slapping him on the back. He was seated opposite the freckly, ginger boy who had stood up to insult the Slytherin's. He grinned widely at Casper.

'Casper Shaw,' he said, leaning forward, 'that was _brutal_.'

'Yeah, you told them, Casper,' said a smiling Samin. Francis was staring happily up at the remaining students, where Professor Longbottom had regained order.

' _Ahem_ ,' he croaked, 'Stebbins, Nicklin!'

The last of the boys from Casper's train compartment shuffled forward, puffing out his chest as he took his place on the stool.

'Bet he's a Ravenclaw,' said Francis, 'he's well smart.'

Casper disagreed, thinking Nicklin was more talk than anything else, but never-the-less waited patiently to see Nicklin's fate. After a several minutes, the hat finally opened its mouth.

'SLYTHERIN!'

The Slytherin table once again began cheering for their latest addition, but Nicklin looked slightly discouraged by the news, and Casper couldn't help but feel that Nicklin should've been placed into Ravenclaw, or even Gryffindor.

'That's a shame, his cousin was a solid flyer, he'll probably make the team next year,' groaned the orange-haired boy opposite Casper.

'He didn't seem like a dark wizard,' said Casper as he watched Nicklin take a seat beside fellow first year Quint Selwyn.

'Probably a nice bloke,' said a girl sat beside Samin, who also had hair the colour of orange flame. 'But the whole Slytherin-dark-arts-mumbo-jumbo hasn't been relevant for years, there's good and bad in every house.'

'My cousin likes to see the good in everyone, don't you Roxy?' said the ginger boy, drawing giggles from several girls sat around him.

'Shut up Lois,' she retorted, turning her attention back to the sorting.

Only three first years remained; 'Talspout, Opal' joined the Ravenclaw table, as did 'Thumbs, Buddy', while a bespectacled 'Telvoya, Melania' rounded up the new Slytherins, much to their delight.

Francis O'Boyle was staring sadly down at his golden plate, which was devoid of food, while Samin listened curiously to a conversation Lois and Roxy were having about Quidditch. Casper stared only at the hooded Headmaster, who watched Professor Longbottom as he left the hall with the sorting hat.

At last, Harry Potter stood, removing his hood, and staring about the hall with weary, dark-ringed eyes.

'No… fucking… _way_ ,' whispered Lois, barely audible.

There were various responses from around the hall, including a shriek and a moderate amount of hushed voices declaring their surprise. Francis looked around in confusion, and Samin raised an eyebrow. Casper felt a sort of pride that he was perhaps one of the few Muggle-borns in the hall that recognised the man.

'Welcome,' said Harry in a booming voice, 'to our students new and old, I am Harry Potter, replacement Headmaster of Hogwarts,' there was a fresh outburst of noise at this point, but Harry stormed relentlessly on with his speech.

'While it isn't news to anyone, the Forbidden forest has become particularly forbidden recently, and you would do well to avoid it. Quidditch trials will begin in the second week of term, and anyone interested in applying for their house teams should seek out their house's Quidditch captain.'

Lois caught Casper's eye at this point, and winked.

'Besides myself, joining us this year are Professor Harp, who will be our resident Charms master, and a returning Minerva McGonagall, teaching Transfiguration.'

'No way!' said someone to Casper's left.

'Harry and McGonagall back at Hogwarts, who would've thought it,' mumbled Roxy thoughtfully.

'And on a final note; the position of Head of Slytherin house has been awarded to Professor Knowles –'

There was a minor uproar from the Slytherin table, to Casper's utter bemusement. Lois laughed loudly at the news, clapping his hands together delightfully as the Slytherins began to boo and hiss at Harry's decision.

Casper watched Harry's reaction; the Professors face contorted into a grimace, and in one smooth action he brought out his wand, pointing above his head.

 _BANG!_

The hall fell quiet at once, and all eyes became fixed on Harry's wand, which smoked slightly from its tip. Casper was amused to see that Professor Longbottom, who had re-joined the table, had smashed a crystal goblet in surprise.

'Anyone who has any complaints regarding this decision may come directly to me,' growled Harry, with a glare that boldly stated that anyone with a complaint may jump head first into the great lake.

'Enjoy your feast,' he finished, sitting down abruptly.

The dishes lining the four tables became suddenly encumbered with food; roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, pigs-in-blankets, roasted potatoes, chips, peas, carrots, sprouts, gravy and mint sauce. The smell of roasted foods tugged at a memory of Casper's, one where he sat happily around a small table with his parents, who were very much alive.

'I'm in heaven,' said Francis, looking so delighted that Casper thought he may cry. He quickly helped himself to some roast potatoes.

'Bleh,' said Samin unhappily, 'English food, it all tastes the same.'

'Get used to it, kiddo,' replied Lois, who had skewered a rasher of bacon on his fork.

Casper was deep into his second helping when the conversations began properly, and the students of Hogwarts were finally allowed to discuss the events of the sorting ceremony.

'Harry, McGonagall, and that Harp woman,' said Roxy, scraping at the remains of her bowl of ice cream, 'that's more noobie's than we've ever had.'

'McGonagall isn't a noobie, Rox,' countered Lois, 'she's spent most of her life teaching, plus she's a war hero.'

'She is?' asked Casper, diving head first into the conversation.

'Even we know McGonagall, and Potter,' said Samin, 'they are on our chocolate frog cards in Persia,'

'Can't believe Uncle Harry kept that quiet, he probably didn't even tell Lily,' said Lois loudly, and Casper felt suddenly diminished; how many of those around him knew Harry personally?

'You know him?' said Francis, mouth full of profiteroles, 'the weird bloke?'

'Oi!' shouted a third red-haired Gryffindor, from a few places down from Lois, 'that's our Uncle, and he isn't weird, he's just got post-traumatic stress disorder, a shit load of it.'

'Post-traumatic what?' asked Samin.

'He killed a bloke a few months back, the press went ballistic, and he's been hiding ever since,' said Lois emotionlessly, as if that cleared everything up.

Casper fell into another silence, processing the information. He had thought Professor Potter seemed a little out of place as Headmaster of Hogwarts, not that he wasn't impressive – he was – but he just didn't seem comfortable with himself.

'Harry's alright though, really, just a bit addled,' said Roxy, giving a Lois a poignant look.

'He probably also doesn't appreciate his relatives gossiping about him at the dinner table!' said a new voice, full of pomp and bravado.

From the middle of the table arose a figure, one pearly white and partially see-through. Casper realised quite quickly that he was face to face with his first Hogwarts ghost.

'Sir Nicholas de Mimsy, at your service,' said the ghost warmly, beaming at Casper and his friends.

'Clear off Nick, you'll give them a heart attack,' chuckled the third ginger Gryffindor.

'I most certainly will not clear off, Frederic Weasley,' moaned Nick, who hovered above the table menacingly, 'I will be having words with your father!' he threatened, shooting off down the table to fill an empty spot near the end.

'This place might drive me mad,' said Francis, who was rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

'You'll get used it,' soothed Frederic, who had scooted up to join in the discussion.

'I'm telling you,' said Francis, 'this morning my dad almost wet himself when we fell through that barrier at Kings Cross,'

'Yeah, that was weird,' agreed Casper, recalling his driver wrestling him towards the wall.

'Muggle-born are you?' asked Lois, looking at Casper.

'Yeah, yeah I am,' said Casper defensively.

'How'd your mum and dad take it?' he asked innocently.

'They didn't,' said Casper, suddenly not as willing to be involved in the conversation, 'they're dead, I mean.'

'Well done Lois,' said Roxy, giving Casper a sympathetic look.

'Sorry mate,' Lois said awkwardly, 'still though, for a Muggle-born you got those Slytherin's pretty good, they'll be after you for that.'

'They will? I thought they weren't dark wizards anymore,' Casper suddenly straightened in his chair, peering at the Slytherin table to see if they were plotting against him.

'You don't have to be a dark wizard to defend your house,' said Roxy, 'we're all rivals, and we all have our own ways of protecting the house name,'

'We certainly do,' said Lois mischievously, and those around him chuckled, exchanging knowing looks, 'so did Longbottom show you around Diagon Alley?' he asked Casper, changing the subject.

'No,' said Casper, smiling, 'Professor Potter did,'

Lois fell silent, frowning, and Roxy looked at Casper in surprise, along with several other students.

'So he can take first years up Diagon Alley, but he can't pop his head into the burrow to say hello? What a waste of space,' said Lois, suddenly angry, dropping his spoon into an untouched bowl of treacle tart.

'Lois, don't –' cautioned Roxy, and Casper suddenly felt guilty for stirring things up.

'I like that Professor Longbottom,' said Francis, completely unaware of the discontent at the table, 'turned my older brother's hamster pink, and it still hasn't changed back,'

Casper couldn't help but laugh, and Roxy positively cackled. Lois himself had a small grin at the anecdote, and Casper felt that order had been restored at the table, and he gave Francis a grateful smile - but the boy had quickly turned back to look at his dessert, which disappeared before his very eyes, as had the remaining food on the tables.

The students had all turned to look up at the head table expectantly, and when Casper followed their gaze he saw the Professors looking at Professor Potter, as if awaiting a final speech.

Potter simply stabbed his fork into the table beside his plate, stood up and gave a small wave to the hall, before stalking away in silence.

* * *

'Do you think he's crazy?' asked Francis from his four-poster bed.

'No,' said Casper at once, 'He's just a bit stressed, like that girl said,'

'She's nice,' said Samin quickly, and then broke into a smile as Francis began to giggle.

'Can we go to bed?' said a fourth boy, who had been oddly quiet as they climbed the staircase to their dormitory. His name was Duncan, and he was wearing purple pyjamas. 'We've got an early start, yeah, and I've been up since like, half eight.'

'Yeah you're right, you could do with some beauty sleep,' said Francis lazily, one of his arms hanging limply from his bed.

Samin and Casper laughed, and Duncan shot Francis an annoyed look, giving the boys further amusement.

Before long they were all in bed, and most of them were asleep. All of them except Casper, who lay silently on his bed – the best bed he had ever slept on – with an unquenchable energy running through him.

 _It wasn't all a dream after all_ , he thought numbly. He thought of his wand tucked away in his trunk, and the books of spells that surrounded it. He was a wizard, and nobody could stop him, not even that old, ragged sorting hat.

He smiled, recalling the way he had interrupted the hat as it tried in vain to place him in Slytherin house.

A moment later he was asleep, the four poster bed illuminated by the crescent moon that hung moodily in the clouds.

* * *

Summer had fled, and the grounds were covered in a chilly frost, and buffeted by a strong wind that fled across the mountains and shook the towering trees of the forbidden forest. The entrance to the castle was bathed in twilight, penetrated only when the great doors swung open, revealing a piercing light that silhouetted the forms of the Hogwarts Caretaker and his stunted assistant.

'We'll catch them this time,' muttered Filch, holding an oil lamp above his head and clutching a walking stick with his other hand.

'Kreacher would rather be catching sneaking students than chasing halfbreeds with the blind squib,' trailed the thin voice of Kreacher the house elf, as he shuffled along behind Filch.

'Silence, elf!' snarled Filch, 'you'll scare them away,'

They walked in a stony silence across the grounds, the frosty grass crunching beneath their heavy feet. They headed towards the forest, occasionally growling an insult at one another, or pausing for Filch to regain his footing after his walking stick slid from his weak grip.

 _Stupid, filthy squib_ , moaned Kreacher inside his shallow mind, and his thoughts contorted and he pictured the limping, blind caretaker in a deep, dark pit at Kreacher's eternal mercy. Perhaps with hot coals beneath his bare feet, or mice crawling over his shrivelled body.

'That fool Potter won't be able to ignore me after tonight,' spat Filch, groping his way forward towards the forest.

 _Stupid, ungrateful, blood-traitor_ , snarled Kreacher, knowing that if his Master had not ordered him to be civil towards the crackpot caretaker he would have throttled him in his sleep that very night.

Kreacher's Master, who had graced Kreacher with the locket that belonged to his beloved former owner Regulus, had been very specific regarding his duties to the school, and Kreacher would honour those orders, or risk disgracing his noble bloodline – those that had served the Black's faithfully until their house and name had been erased from the Earth.

'I know you have magic, Elf,' muttered Filch as he paused before the sprawling forest, 'and when we find those evil creatures, you will entrap them in any way you know how, and we will drag them screaming back to the castle,'

Kreacher bristled, desperately craving to beat the caretaker over the head with a fallen branch, but he forced himself to remain stalwart. His master's orders had been specific, after all, and he would not shame his master, no matter how impure the caretaker's blood may be.

 _Oh, my poor mistress_ , he thought sourly, holding the dear memory of his previous owners in the forefront of his ancient mind, _what would she say if she saw Kreacher entertaining this idiot-man with his foul, useless eyes._

There was a sudden _crack_ from inside the forest, beneath the dark canopy that surrounded Kreacher and the caretaker. Kreacher found himself creeping closer to the blind caretaker, if only to help shield himself from a possible attack.

'Who goes there?' called Filch with venom in his words, 'show yourself, halfbreeds!'

They crept forward in unison, stepping out from beneath the shadows of the trees and stepping into the flickering lamplight of Filch's lantern. Kreacher peered all around himself, and realised they had been surrounded. While his elf-magic was strong, perhaps stronger than many elf's that worked the Hogwarts kitchens, he was not strong enough to repel so many wizards.

For they were wizards, not centaurs like his Master had presumed. The shabby, wild men formed a ring around Filch and the House Elf, creeping closer until Kreacher could see the feral glint in their eyes, and smell the dried blood around their mouths and in their scruffy, wiry beards.

'Big talk for a blind man,' said one of the men, stepping forward, 'halfbreeds are we? Well what does that make you, squib?'

Filch bristled, and although he may have known that the odds were not in his favour, he brandished his walking stick like a duelling sword, swinging it wildly in front of him to ward off attack.

'Stay back!' he spat, 'I am under protection of the castle of Hogwarts, and you will stay back!'

'Fuck your castle,' snarled the man, darting towards Filch and snatching the walking stick from his hands.

Kreacher fell backwards, and made himself as small as possible as the other men closed in. He watched in mingled fear and horror as the leader of the pack grabbed Filch by the hair, wrenched his head backwards, and plunged his pointed teeth into the caretaker's neck.

Filch screamed, his creaking voice piercing the night. Soon his throat had filled with blood, and his screams faded to a pitiful gurgle as the packleader threw his twitching body to the ground.

'No need to wait until the full moon, boys,' laughed the man, whose face and neck were covered in Filch's blood, 'let's all see what squib tastes like, shall we?'

The men surged forward, tearing at Filch with claws and teeth, ripping the clothes from his body and feasting on the man's flesh. He put up no fight, and simply accepted his fate, whimpering into the night until the last beats of his heart pressed weakly against his chest.

Kreacher had hoped to remain unseen, but as Filch died, the leader of the pack turned his focus towards Kreacher, fixing him with a devilish stare.

'Elf,' he growled, 'you tell your new Headmaster that this is our forest now, and for every human that steps inside it, we will send back one head,'

He laughed manically, pointing his face at the sky, where the crescent moon illuminated his frame. Soon his laugh had turned to viscous barks as his throat contorted. The men around him stopped their feast, crouched on their hands and knees, and joined in the call of their master.

Kreacher recoiled in horror, and thought desperately of his warm, safe place. His den at the bottom of the kitchen cupboard in his beloved mistresses' ancient house. With that thought in his mind, he squeezed his eyes shut, blacking out the blood and gore and chaos, and disappeared into the night with a sharp _crack_.


	11. Malfoy

**Malfoy**

'Wake up, Casper, you'll be late for Defence Against the Dark Arts!' called someone across the dormitory, rousing Casper from his deep slumber.

He looked, bleary eyed, across the room, where Samin was staring at him, pulling his robes over his head.

'Apparently it's taught by a midget,' said a groggy Francis in a tone of disbelief.

'Actually, it's taught by a dwarf,' said the shrewd boy, Duncan, 'don't you know anything?' he added as he left the room.

'No,' shouted Francis after him, 'that's why they sent me to school!'

Casper laughed, tugging on various items of clothing until he resembled a Hogwarts student, and then produced his wand from his trunk, feeling a healthy surge of warmth run up his arm at its touch.

'Unicorn hair?' asked Francis, brandishing his own wand, which was barely over half a foot in length.

'Nope,' said Casper, tucking his wand into his belt, 'dragons heart string,'

'Cool!' said Francis, looking down at his wand, and frowning with disappointed, 'I mean, not as cool as a Unicorn, but…'

'What about yours Samin?' Casper asked as they hurried down the steps towards the Gryffindor common room.

'Eleven and a half inch, made from holly wood and…' he paused for effect, 'demiguise hair,'

'A what-y-guise?' asked Francis, stumped.

'It is a creature of my home land, they look much like a friendly monkey,' he said, trying not to laugh.

'Enjoy your monkey wand,' said Francis simply, losing interest.

The boys made their way to the common room, which was crowded with the hustle and bustle of passing students. Several hovered by the notice board, seeking the dates of when their clubs and teams regrouped for the year, or perhaps putting up advertisements to buy and sell various goods.

Casper led his two companions out of the common room, and past the portrait of the Fat Lady who served as guardian to the Gryffindor house. They deduced that their class was on the third floor, and that it wouldn't take them much longer than five minutes to reach – so they dawdled at breakfast, taking their time and slowly devouring their piles of sausages, bacon, scrambled egg and baked beans.

They spent a good fifteen minutes attempting to climb the staircases three levels, especially as they would frequently slide out of place and attach to different corridors – almost as if to tease the first years. They ended up on a sixth floor corridor, and stopped to ask a plump ghost with a shining bald patch for directions. Over the next five minutes they walked into several walls pretending to be doors, and were tricked by a Ravenclaw third year into walking into a girls bathroom.

Finally, they found their classroom on the third floor, and joined the line of first year students that were cautiously entering the room.

Various pelts and furs lined the walls, occasionally intersected with a framed skeleton or a hanging, stuffed vampire bat. Casper took a seat in the middle of the room, with Samin and Francis on either side of him. In front of him was a cute Gryffindor girl that shot Casper a smile as she sat down. He watched another group of students enter the room, and by their blue-and-black checker ties he assumed them to be Ravenclaws.

There was at least a three minute silence before a final figure bustled into the room, pointedly ignoring the students until he had climbed onto a tall stool behind the desk. The man was roughly four and a half feet tall, and had a brutal-looking axe strapped to his back, as well as a bushy, close-cropped beard clinging to his round face.

'Right!' he snapped, giving his new students a piercing look, 'my name is Professor Alviss, and if you listen to me you will learn to defend yourself from dark creatures, as well as witches and wizards who mean to do you harm. If you _do not_ listen to me, I will have you sent into the Forbidden forest to shovel centaur _pokka_.'

'Wands out!' he commanded, causing the first years to jump in surprise.

Professor Alviss unstrapped his battle-axe, which was nearly as big as himself, and swung it in a wide arc above his head. Casper felt his seat shift beneath him, and then drag itself away from the centre of the room, along with his table, to be neatly stacked along the edge of the walls.

'You will form into pairs. Standing opposite one another, put one leg in front of the other, and hold your wand at the ready beside your ear.'

The class did as ordered, and Casper turned to find Samin and Francis clutching each other, having chosen one another to be their partner. Casper smarmed, turning to seek a partner of his own, and recoiled as the Gryffindor girl that had sat in front of him prodded him sharply in the ribs.

'Ready?' she asked wickedly, a glint in her eye.

Casper nodded, and took a position beside Samin, watching the girl closely as she shook hair from her eyes and dropped into the stance Professor Alviss had suggested.

Casper mimicked her movements, placing his left leg in front of the other for balance, and readying his wand beside his ear.

'On the count of three, you will direct your wand at your partner, and say the following…' he said slowly, patrolling down the centre of the students.

'Bang!' he said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. He then proceeded to chuckle heartily, as the first years looked around, confused.

Casper couldn't help but share their disappointment; he had hoped that he would begin his school year by learning a defensive spell.

'What's wrong?' asked Alviss in mock disbelief, 'did you think I'd trust you with magic on your first day?'

'We'll build your confidence up first, and then get to the good stuff. Right, on the count of three… One, two, three!'

'BANG!' shouted the class in unison; Casper practically roared the word.

Nothing happened, and once again the first years looked at Alviss in disappointment.

'Good,' he said, nodding, 'and again, one, two, three!'

* * *

Harry paced his office, for no reason but to give himself something to do. He had spoken to no one since his speech at the start of year feast, and he had heard nothing from the Professors as they began their first lessons of the term – he had outright avoided the staff room this morning, for fear of interfering.

Instead he had confined himself to his office, and watched moodily as Owl's battered themselves against his windows, bringing with them a flood of mail from friends, family and the parents of Hogwarts students who had written home last night to share the news; Harry Potter was officially the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

The office, which had seemed so warm and inviting at first, seemed to choke Harry, and he was on the verge of blasting a hole through the wall, when there was a flurry of loud bangs on his door.

'Harry! Harry!' came the distressed voice of Hagrid as he reached the top of the circular stairs.

He practically fell through the office doors, coming to screeching stop at the desk which Harry had instinctively jumped behind, wand out at the ready.

'Hagrid?' he asked cautiously, 'what's wrong? Is a student hurt?'

'No –' he panted, 'no – not a student – it's –'

He gulped in a great, mouthful of air, and steadied himself. Harry saw that his eyes had filled with tears, and he watched as Hagrid took something small from his pocket, and let it drop onto the desk.

It was a collar, barely big enough for a cat, or a small dog. Harry fingered the rough leather, judging it to be many years old. He twisted the collar around, and peered at the tarnished pendant that hung from it.

 _Mrs. Norris._

'Filch's cat?' asked Harry, not understanding.

'Died years ago, but Filch… 'e always carried it with 'im…' said Hagrid sadly, 'I found it in the forest, next to 'is body… or what was left of it,'

'He's dead?' said Harry suddenly, finally understanding Hagrid's hysteria, 'but how?'

'I dunno Harry… but it's no creature I've ever seen,' he said, placing himself on a spare chair, which threatened to disintegrate under his weight.

'It wasn't the acromantula?'

'Oh no, 'e was on the fringes o' the forest, far too shallow for Aragog's kin,' said Hagrid, rubbing his chin in thought.

'McGonagall's going to kill me,' Harry said after a minute's silence, 'the first day of term, and we've got a body turning up in the forest,'

'Come now, Harry, this ain't yer fault,' consoled Hagrid, a fresh bout of worry lining his face, 'a freak accident, I tell you,'

A thought suddenly struck Harry, as he recalled the previous day's events inside the staff room; the last place he had seen Filch alive.

'Did you find Kreacher too?' he asked, dreading Hagrid's answer.

'Nope, no sign of 'im, although Hamish said 'e saw two sets o' tracks comin' out of the castle,'

'He's got a keen eye,' said Harry, in thought, 'well then, he's hiding.'

'Kreacher!' he said loudly, summoning the elf.

For the first time in his life, Harry found there was a moment's hesitation, before an ear-splitting _crack_ filled the air, and Kreacher appeared, bedraggled as ever, on the carpet of Harry's office.

'Master has summoned Kreacher, for reasons Kreacher cannot fathom,' he whispered, eyeing Hagrid with distaste.

'Filch is dead,' said Harry at once, 'and you were with him. What happened?'

And then Kreacher burst into tears

'Kreacher did not defy Master!' he wailed, slamming his tiny fists against the carpet, 'Kreacher did his duty! Kreacher could not save the filthy squib from the dirty halfbreeds!'

'What 'alfbreeds?' said Hagrid, startled.

'The wolf-men… smell them, Kreacher could…'

'Werewolves,' said Harry, looking up at Hagrid, 'I thought those were just rumours,'

'They were!' Hagrid exclaimed in a hurry, 'we ain't never 'ad werewolves. We just let the kids think that, to scare 'em away from the forest,'

'The halfbreeds had a message for Master,' muttered Kreacher, staring anxiously up at Harry. 'They told Kreacher… "this is our forest now, and for every human that steps inside it, we will send back one head" …'

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, as Hagrid buried his face in his hands, and Harry slumped in his chair, wondering how on earth he had managed to find himself in the middle of a wizard-werewolf war - something that hadn't been heard of for decades.

Kreacher stood crookedly, as if waiting for his punishment, one Harry felt no need to give him – the poor elf had probably been frightened to death.

'Kreacher, I'll need you to take on Filch's responsibilities,' he said, causing the Elf's eyes to shrivel in distaste, 'you'll effectively be the new Hogwarts Caretaker, and you'll be paid as such,'

'Paid?' shrieked Kreacher, 'Kreacher does not want your wizard money. Kreacher has no need for _belongings_ ,'

He practically spat the last word, although as he said it Harry caught the gleam of silver within his tatty loincloth – the locket Harry had given Kreacher as a reward for his help during the war.

'Then save it, for all I care,' said Harry dismissively, 'save it until you can buy that horrible house off of me,'

Kreacher's eyes widened and he straightened up, giving Harry a look that vaguely indicated respect. He nodded once, and disappeared into thin air, leaving Harry's ears ringing.

'Hagrid, cancel your morning lessons,' said Harry, arranging his thoughts into a cohesive plan, 'tell Neville the news, as soon as possible, and get him to alert the Governors. Tell him to be vague – don't say it was a murder, say it was an accident, and we're investigating, but _do not_ mention werewolves.'

Hagrid nodded distractedly at Harry's orders.

'Hagrid!' said Harry loudly, hoping that he had not nodded off into a phase of delusion, as he had inside his cabin, 'I need you to focus and do as I said,'

'O' course, Harry' he said, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, 'Neville, governors, I can do tha' Harry, just leave it with me.'

Harry watched him leave, and almost considered sending an owl to Neville to be safe – but decided against it. He would trust Hagrid to carry his message; he was indestructible, after all.

* * *

Once again Harry found himself sitting restlessly in his office, dreading the moment that Professor McGonagall stormed through the door and sacked him for failing to protect those he employed.

 _Filch_ , thought Harry sourly, tormented by his mixed emotions towards the man. He had been a harsh, unfair man, but he did not deserve to die at the hands of fanatical werewolves. Harry had checked his lunar chart, and considering the previous night had been a crescent moon, he did not imagine it was a quick death.

He began absent-mindedly clearing away the clutter around the office; some of it belonging to him, and other tidbits belonging to the former head. He eventually stumbled across a drawer, tucked beneath a revolving cabinet of potion ingredients, which contained nothing but mechanical parts; cogs, wheels, wiring and copper plates – as well as two gem stones cut in a way that made them look like beady, amber eyes.

Beneath this pile of scrap, was a roll of parchment, browned with age.

Harry, who had always had problems containing his curiosity, unrolled the parchment across his desk.

It was a plan, scribed in bold, black ink with intricate sketches that displayed a complicated looking mechanical owl. Harry traced the list of instructions with his fingertip, wondering how on earth the previous Headmaster found the time to create such complicated designs – no wonder he never found a chance to finish building the thing.

Harry rolled the parchment up, putting it to one side, and pulled the drawer from its cabinet, with the intentions of vanishing the various bits of scrap – but upon emptying the contents of the drawer onto the top of his desk, he couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of the former head's creativity.

Before he knew it, he was fiddling with the cogs and wheels, placing things together until they fit, or else using his wand to magically screw bolts into place. After what he thought were several minutes, but could well have been several hours, he had finished one of the owl's wings, although some of the pieces were clearly missing – there were a dozen bits of bronze that had been carved into sharp feathers which Harry had clumsily placed together.

There was a lazy knock on the door, and Harry had a mind to ignore it, and instead continue tinkering with the owl, but he quickly recalled his duty as Headmaster, and called out to admit his new visitor.

A young witch from Slytherin house entered, carelessly slamming the door shut behind her. She had sleek white-blonde hair, although parts of it had been alternately dyed jet black and bubble-gum pink. Her eyes were a cold grey, and one of her eyebrows had a small, silver hoop through it. Other than this oddity, she was an attractive girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age.

'Hello?' said Harry, somewhat annoyed at being disturbed on a day where he had owls to build and deaths to investigate, 'how did you know my password?'

'That Harp woman told me – who's Padfoot?' she asked, staring around the office with a look of total disinterest on her face.

'My godfather,' said Harry simply, wishing she would get to the point of her visit.

'Oh, the blood traitor?' she asked with a devious smile.

'Yep, that's the one,' Harry replied dismissively, 'now why are you in my office?'

'Some Ravenclaw bitch called me a dyke,' she said bluntly, dropping herself into the chair opposite Harry.

'A – she – what?' Harry blundered, caught off-guard.

'It means lesbian,' she clarified impatiently.

'Oh, well…' he trailed, at a loss for words.

'So I got her with a bat-bogey hex, and then Professor Harp shit a brick, and sent me here to see you,'

'And I'm supposed to punish you?' said Harry to himself as much as her.

'I guess so,' she replied, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

'Well then, ten points from Slytherin, I guess,' and considering it was Harry's first time docking points, he felt slightly glad it was from Slytherin house, 'why did she call you a… you know?'

'A dyke? Probably because I like girls,' she said, rolling her eyes.

Harry was very aware that this young woman was intentionally belittling his authority, but for some reason he didn't mind. For all the bravado, she was fairly likeable.

'What's your name?'

'Celaeno,' she said, smiling, 'Celaeno Malfoy,'

'Malfoy?' spluttered Harry, quickly altering his opinion of a girl.

She laughed to herself, as if she had been waiting for Harry to deduce this all along. 'Yep, Malfoy, my Dad has told me all about you – not that he needs to, you're all over the papers.'

'Great,'

'How does it feel to be a colossal disappointment, Professor Potter?'

'Wonderful,' sighed Harry.

'Well join the club,'

'Does your father know you like women?' Harry asked suddenly, hoping to disarm her with the question.

'He suspects; which is probably why dear Scorpius gets all the attention, as well as the best brooms.'

'Well, he was mostly responsible for me getting this job,' said Harry honestly, thinking back to his near-disastrous meeting with the Governors.

'Really?' she said with genuine surprise, 'that's weird, he really hates you, you know.'

'I thought so too,' Harry said, confirming that Draco had not in fact had a change of heart, and was almost certainly plotting something.

Celaeno could make a valuable ally, thought the Auror inside Harry's brain. He dismissed the thought immediately; using a student against one of his oldest rivals was certainly not the correct behaviour of a Hogwarts professor.

'Well, you're free go, Celaeno,' said Harry, feeling as if his duty as Headmaster had been done, although perhaps not to the satisfaction that Professor Harp had been expecting.

'Oh,' said Celaeno, who had been staring, as if daydreaming, at Harry, 'wicked,' she said, quickly recovering.

'See you at dinner, Professor,' she said mischievously, 'I'll tell Dad you said hello,'

She slammed the door shut behind her, and Harry couldn't help but grin. Regardless of the fact that Harry was programmed to dislike every Malfoy he encountered, he couldn't help but like Celaeno – although he swore to never reveal this to his children, or his best friend.

'The Head of the Auror Department is here to see you,' said an old, familiar voice from behind Harry, as if perfectly synchronized with Harry's thoughts.

'It's Ron, isn't it?' he asked Albus' portrait, already knowing the answer.

'It is, Harry, are you surprised?'

'Of course not, he's brilliant,' sighed Harry,

* * *

Harry had hurried through the castle towards the grounds, although as he neared the great doors of the entrance hall, he slowed himself considerably, and began predicting exactly how this conversation would begin – awkwardly... very awkwardly.

There was nothing to be done about it, thought Harry, resuming his speed. The doors swung forward at Harry's approach, and about a dozen meters in front of him stood Ron Weasley, clad in Auror's robes and smiling at Harry in disbelief.

'Bloody hell,' he said, as Harry stopped in his tracks, 'it's true then?'

'Yep,' said Harry, 'figured I'd give the Prophet something new to write about,'

Ron laughed, and in that moment their friendship was renewed, as if the last six months had been swept beneath the ground.

'I know why you're here,' said Harry, the gruesome image of Filch's ruined body floating into his mind.

'Figured it out did you?' asked Ron, looking impressed.

Harry held his tongue, uncertain of what Ron was talking about – perhaps he didn't know why Ron was here after all.

'He was murdered, Harry,' said Ron seriously, 'Leander Thursday was murdered.'

Harry's thoughts seemed to freeze over - this was new information. Information that made the werewolf attack all the more dangerous: if they were willing to murder the Headmaster of Hogwarts, they were willing to start a full on war with the witches and wizards of Britain.

'I just thought you had a right to know,' said Ron slowly, after Harry had not replied.

'Thanks,' said Harry, his mind racing back to analyse what he knew what Professor Thursday and his habits as Headmaster, 'I think I know who did it,'

'You do? You're retired and you're still a step ahead of us, when does that brain of yours switch off Harry?'

'When I'm blind drunk,' joked Harry, 'There's been another murder – Argus Filch.'

Ron blinked in surprise, his mouth falling open. Harry could see that the stress of his new promotion was taking its toll on Ron, as he hadn't shaved in several days, and his hair was receding at an increased rate.

'Filch was still working here?' Ron was in a state of disbelief, 'Blimey… you sure it wasn't old age?'

'I'm sure, Hagrid found his remains in the forest,' answered Harry, much to Ron's dismay. 'It gets worse too – it was a pack of werewolves, and they committed the murder in human form. They're fully responsible, Ron.'

'That doesn't match up,' Ron said, frowning, 'Leander had no marks on him; we figure it was a killing curse… He was in good condition for his age, but we examined his wand and his final spells were purely defensive – the kind you use in close-quarter combat.'

'Well, werewolves have wands, Ron, and they probably thought Leander would put up more of a fight than Filch.'

'Yeah, you're right,' admitted Ron, 'Hermione's going to hate me when I tell her; she spent years campaigning for werewolf rights, and this is going to ruin all of it.'

'I know what the Prophet's like Ron, but we have to keep this quiet – we can trust Hermione and our crowd, but nobody at the Ministry can know,'

'Agreed, I'll handpick who works on the case,' decided Ron.

'Thanks,' said Harry gratefully, realising he may keep his job longer than one day.

'No worries mate,' said Ron, smiling, 'even with all the murder and chaos, it's bloody good to see you back on your feet.'

'I just wish Ginny felt the same way,' replied Harry glumly.

'Mate, I've spoke to her, she's going to get over it,' he said, clapping Harry on the arm, 'almost definitely,'

 _He doesn't know_ , thought Harry. 'Ron… she's found someone else,' he said slowly, measuring Ron's reaction.

'Um… no, she hasn't,'

Harry sighed.

'Ron, trust me, she's found –'

'Harry, trust _me,_ she's been staying at the burrow, and the only bloke she sees is Dad - when he isn't electrocommuting himself.'

'No – no' began Harry, 'She was with that man, on the night I saw her –'

'Thursday?'

'What?'

'Edmund Thursday, Leander's son, he was 'round your place,' clarified Ron.

'Leander's son?' Harry asked, at a complete loss.

'Yeah, he's a nice bloke. Tall, handsome, works for the Prophet' listed Ron knowingly, 'oh, and he's dating your daughter.'

'He's – what?' stammered Harry, simultaneously relived and outraged.

'Dating Lily - has been for two months. They were having dinner with Ginny the night you turned up and started setting things on fire.'

Harry wanted to be much angrier about this turn of events, but at the same time he knew Ginny, his beloved wife, was still loyal to him… and Harry had repaid her by setting fire to her carefully cultivated shrubberies.

'Well then, I've made a right mess of things,' he said.

'You're only human, mate,' consoled Ron, giving Harry a look of honest sympathy, 'look, I reckon you give it 'til Christmas. Settle down here, get into the swing of things and then, when all the families round and she can't make a scene, pop your head in and say hello – and bring flowers.'

'When did you become an expert?' asked Harry genuinely.

'When Hugo started asking Hermione for advice with girls, I figured I'd listen in and pick up a few pointers,'

'Genius,' remarked Harry, smiling despite the chill breeze.

'Look, even with you and McGonagall running the place, Hogwarts isn't as safe as it used to be,' Ron told Harry, returning to Auror mode, 'I know it's horrible, but Filch snuffing it is a _millions_ times better than a student getting killed on the premises,'

Harry shivered at the thought, and nodded.

'I'm going to post Auror's around the forest, it's the best we can do for now,' said Ron assertively, not quite meeting Harry's eye, as if afraid he would overrule him.

'The council won't like it,' Harry argued weakly, although he knew that Ron was talking sense.

'Bugger the council,' swore Ron, 'I'll have my Auror's get in contact with Hagrid, and between them they can run patrols and maybe we'll scare the werewolves into backing off,'

'It's this or security trolls,' added Ron 'and they smell terrible,'

Harry nodded to Ron's authority, knowing full well that his best friend was the perfect choice to replace him as Head of the Auror department.

Ron held out a hand, and Harry shook it firmly, before stepping backwards to make room for a group of passing Slytherins that were headed into the castle.

'She one of Malfoy's?' said Ron with distaste, as the girls disappeared behind the castle doors. Harry glimpsed a flash of blonde and pink hair amongst the throng.

'Yeah,' he said fondly, before suddenly remembering he hated Malfoy's and everything they stood for, 'bloody nightmare, she is.'

The lie had put Ron in a good mood for his departure, and he was assuring Harry that he would assign him only the best of the Auror department, which had Harry guessing who of their division would be joining him at Hogwarts. He bid Ron a fond farewell as the students gathered en-masse for the evening dinner, and Harry watched Ron strut towards the village of Hogsmeade, where he would apparate back to his family home.

* * *

Celaeno was bored out of her mind, and she couldn't help but think that at the ripe age of fifteen, she had outgrown mandatory education, and would do better to seek her fortune elsewhere.

'What're you thinking about?' asked her fellow fourth year, Jescelda Myrth, who lazed against her body, casually tracing circles around Celaeno's belly button with her index finger.

'Professor Potter,' she lied quickly, recalling the poor excuse for a Professor that had taken refuge in the Headmaster's office, 'saw him today; he's a bit of a mess.'

'Why're you thinking about _him_?' asked Jez teasingly, allowing an attractive hint of jealously into her voice.

'Obviously because I want to fuck him,' said Celaeno sarcastically, smiling at Jez's feigned outrage.

'Don't tell me you like boys now, Cel, I don't think I could take the heartbreak,' she muttered, closing her eyes and burying her face against Celaeno's neck.

Celaeno smiled at the jest, wriggling with pleasure as Jescelda breathed slow, warm breaths against her neck. She liked Jescelda very much, but where matters of the heart were concerned, she would be very much on her own if she one day admitted to 'developing love,' as they jokingly called it.

She closed her eyes, allowing the rhythm of Jescelda's breathing to soothe her into a relaxing doze…

…and suddenly Harry Potter was back in her thoughts, his casual dismissal of Celaeno's misconduct, and the way he allowed criticism to roll off of him... Or perhaps the most alluring thing about the Professor… the way her Father despised him.

Suddenly he was naked in her thoughts, shed of the heavy, hooded cloak, and bathed in the scars left behind by his enemies and victims; those that had hunted him from birth, or grown to hate him during his years as an Auror – a dark wizard catcher, perhaps the most dangerous occupation of all. Celaeno imagined his war-hardened body, chiselled in all the right places, with streaks of dark hair along the contours of his bare skin.

'You're eager,' said Jescelda softly, upon discovering Celaeno's wetness.

 _Interesting_ , thought Celaeno, as Jescelda dipped her head beneath the covers.


End file.
